by Nesly Clerge
Starks paused outside the office and peered through the double-paned security glass on the top half of the door. Demory was in his brown leather chair at his desk, scribbling on a tablet, as usual. He paused, holding his pen about a half inch off the paper. More silver mixed with brown at the temples of Demory’s thinning hair. The counselor had dropped a few pounds; the buttons on his shirt still strained against the fabric but no longer seemed moments away from popping off.
The office looked the same: Pale blue walls with aqua lines curved like waves on the ocean, faux Oriental rug under the maple desk. Several drawers of the maple filing cabinet were open, with folders raised askew and papers sticking out. The urge to put the small mess in order was replaced with a smile.
Starks knocked and waited. Demory looked up, grinned, and waved him in.
“Starks! I was told you look different.” He pointed to the tattoo. “Added a little color to your life. Good to see you again.” Demory went around his desk, his hand extended. They shook then Demory returned to his chair.
Starks positioned the extra chair two feet in front of the desk and centered so that he faced the counselor straight on. “I wondered if you were ever going to come back to this stimulating institution.”
“I was gone a little longer than anticipated. Had some family matters to attend to. I’d ask how you are but I read the updates in your file, and,” he gestured toward the bandage, “I can see some of it. I’d hoped you’d changed your mind about talking to my substitute while I was out.”
“I made it clear that no way was I going to start from scratch with someone keeping your chair warm.”
“I wish I hadn’t had to be away. You’ve been a little too busy in my absence, none of it the direction I’d hoped you’d go in while I was out.”
Starks shrugged. “I aim for the right direction and someone diverts me.”
“We’ve talked about this before. If you believe that, you’re letting others control your life.”
“They’re doing a damn good job of fucking with it.” Starks slouched back in the chair. “Pretty easy to be judgmental when you can leave for the day or get out of here for an extended time. And not because you’re unconscious.”
“I’m not judging you. I’m asking you to claim responsibility for your decisions.”
Starks stood up. “I’m sick of everybody thinking I’m always wrong, of being judged.” He raised his shirt and pointed to his scars. “See these?” He ripped the bandage from his wrist. “And now I’ve acquired a new one. If this crap keeps happening, I’m going to have to change my name to Lionel, for all the tracks people are putting on me. You wouldn’t last a day in here, Demory. All your reasoning wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference. There are some people in here you can’t reason with; you can only react to them. You can only do your best to stay alive and intact. It’s like treading water while the sharks circle. Just when you think you’re okay, one or more of them sneaks up from below and bites a chunk out of you.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you, Starks. And I’m not judging you. I want to help. That’s all. And you know very well there are people everywhere you can’t reason with. Their unreasonableness is their problem; how you respond is yours. Now, why don’t you sit down and tell me what’s bothering you the most. Something is. Don’t deny it.”
Starks’s shoulders sagged. He stayed where he was for a few seconds then returned to the chair. “I thought Kayla screwing all those men was the worst kind of betrayal. I was wrong.” He dropped his head into his hands and rubbed his face hard. “I have DNA proof that Blake isn’t mine.”
“A counselor isn’t supposed to say this, but Jesus. I imagine you have more feelings about that than you know what to do with. And, on top of everything else.”
“You’re lucky you only have to imagine them. I’ve loved and taken care of that boy for thirteen years. Thirteen years based on a lie. You see this?” Starks jabbed a finger at the center of his chest. “I feel like my fucking heart’s been ripped out. I don’t know what the hell to feel anymore. If I’m angry, people tell me I’m wrong. If I’m upset, people tell me I’m wrong. I’m getting damn tired of it.
“I did everything for so many people and instead of seeing me as kind and generous, they saw me as weak and gullible. They used me, took advantage of me. Sure, Kayla more than anyone, but that level of deceit is something I have to contend with every day in here. Any choice I make in here is driven by that. Everyone sees the crap I get into, but I’m doing some good, as well. But, who’s paying attention to that?”
Demory’s cell phone buzzed. He slid it from his pocket, silenced it, and placed it to his right on the desk. “Sorry about that. Please keep going.”
“I have to be on alert every second of the day. I walk around wondering who’s going to stab me in the back, literally and figuratively. That gets to you after a while. As for my so-said gang activities, it’s a protective measure. The purpose is defense, not offense.”
“I do see your reasoning, and we need to discuss it. But I want to discuss the matters of Kayla and Blake first. That’s too huge to skip over. I know you feel crushed because of what you’ve learned, but one of the things I’ve been trying to get you to do is look at this from more than just your perspective.”
Demory put his pen down. “Kayla cheated on you; you cheated on her. She had another man’s child while married to you. You had a child with another woman while married to her. Whether Kayla knows about that child or not doesn’t change the fact that each of you did pretty much the same things to each other. Maybe she cheated on you first, but—”
“She did.”
“You didn’t know that. Your cheating wasn’t tit-for-tat. Your infidelity was yours alone, with no care, seemingly, about how it would affect her and your relationship.”
“Sounds like you’re siding with her. Again.”
“I’m not taking anyone’s side. Never have. I’m here to try to help you see the facts, rather than just your interpretation of them. Both of you wronged the other. Repeatedly. You can see that what Kayla did was wrong, but until you see that what you did was wrong, you’re going to keep stumbling through life like a man newly blind.”
Starks didn’t respond.
“Look, Starks, when you accept your contribution to what happened then, and is happening now, your overall perspective will shift. When you have a different perspective, you’ll make different choices. Better choices. We’ve covered this before. If you wait for Kayla or anyone else to change first, before you alter your thoughts and behaviors, you may wait forever. How long do you really want to keep suffering in this way? Pain happens, but it’s our choice to suffer or not. You were a big man out there. You need to be a bigger man than Kayla or anyone in here who wants to drag you down with them. Is any of this registering?”
Starks exhaled hard and stayed silent. He focused on the small window behind Demory. A pigeon landed on the sill and looked in at him. It bobbed its head and seemed to study him before it flew away.
Demory picked up his cell phone. “My phone was running slow. I found out it had a virus. Someone told me to do a hard reset. They forgot to tell me to back up my information. I lost everything on there. Took me a while to put most everything back, but the phone’s running better than ever now.”
“What’s that have to do with me?”
“Sometimes in life you need a hard reset. You’ll lose some people and things you care about, but gain others. Coming to Sands was punishment for something you did, but it’s also an opportunity for a hard reset. Things happen in our life for a reason; it’s up to us to figure out what that is. Do a hard reset, Starks. Start fresh. Put the past where it belongs.” Demory put his phone down. “Now, I’d like to talk about how you feel about Blake.”
Starks got up. He kept his tone moderate. “I’m surrounded by lunatics, assholes, and pseudo philosophers. I thought I could talk to you; that you’d get what I’m going through. You’re too busy telling me I need to fix
myself, like your damn phone. As though it’s that simple. If you can’t understand where I’m coming from, with everything you know about me and my life—and you don’t know everything—you won’t understand anything I have to say about Blake or anything else that’s happened since you left, much less how I feel.
“Don’t ask to see me again. Don’t insist on sessions. If you do I’ll sit here and contemplate my navel while you pop out platitudes. This session is over. We’re over. The only thing I have to say is fuck everyone. The only way anything or anyone in here or out there is going to change is if I make them do it.”
“I’m sorry to hear that’s how you feel. If you change your mind, I’m here for you.”
Starks got to the door. He turned the knob then looked back at Demory. “Get a clue. Then do your own fucking hard reset.”
CHAPTER 58
STARKS SAT ON his bunk with his back against the wall. The book with the cell phone hidden inside was open and propped on his bent knees. The call was necessary, but he also knew it might be unpleasant, at least in part.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hmph. If you’re calling me, you must want something. What’s wrong now?”
He knew her well enough to visualize her posture: Her right arm pressed against her stomach as her hand supported her left elbow, the phone cradled in her left hand and pressed hard against her ear, her lips nearly a straight line. “How are you? How’s the family?”
“Other than feeling unimportant to you, we’re all fine.” Lynn Starks was quiet a moment then asked with a softened tone, “What about you, son?”
“I’m doing as well as I can.”
“I hate every bitch and bastard who put you there.”
“I know.”
“Did you call because you missed your mother, or is there something else?”
“I do miss you, but you’re right about the something else. It’s about the children.”
“She hardly lets me see them. Says their schedules are full is why there’s no time for me. That’s bullshit. Are they all right? Did their bitch of a mother do something to them? Has she abandoned them?” Her voice became higher and thinner. “Did that sonofabitch boyfriend do something to my grandchildren?”
“Calm down. It’s nothing like that. They’re okay. I need you to take over the financial aspect of their care. Parker should be contacting you soon.”
“Kayla will never allow it.”
“She’ll have to. Parker told me that since I’m in prison and not earning, I’m not obligated to pay anything. However, the kids aren’t going to suffer. I instructed him to do what’s needed to get payments for the kids sent directly to you.” Starks explained how the new arrangement would work.
Lynn said, “I heard what the slut was doing with the money meant for my grandchildren. I also saw her get into her flashy new car the other day. She had to move the seat back when her pregnant belly was cramped by the steering wheel.”
“I guess you haven’t heard. Kayla lost the baby.”
Lynn Starks cackled loudly. “Serves the slut right. Guess she’ll have to go to an exclusive spa to get pampered now. She’s done that a few times since you’ve been in prison. I guess your sentence is too hard on her.”
“Check in with Parker to see what his progress is. Ask Jeffrey to be the go-between, if you need or want one.”
“The less I have to deal with that tramp the better. You should have listened to me all those years ago. I knew what I was talking about. But no, you let your lust—”
“I have to go. People are waiting for the phone.”
“Let them wait. I have something important to tell you. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
“Who?”
“You won’t be in prison forever. And, I heard that with good behavior you can get out early. You’ll start over, and that’ll be easier if you have a proper wife.”
“Where’s this going?”
“I ran into Samuel Boseman. You remember Samuel and his daughter Jamila. She’s unmarried but wants to be. She’ll even wait for you. You know theirs is a good family.”
Starks went still, wondering if his mother had lost her mind. “You know I’m with Emma. She’s waiting for me. When I get out, we’re getting married.”
“And you’ll make yet another mistake. She’s not for you, son. She doesn’t cook or clean. And she doesn’t want any more children. You can’t be happy like that.”
“First of all, I can hire a maid; my wife doesn’t need to be one. Second, between us, we have enough children. I don’t want anymore. I’m almost forty now. If I do have to serve my full term, I damn sure don’t want to get out and start another family. Third, Emma makes me happy. She’s a far better person than Kayla could ever hope to be. She’s intelligent, financially independent, beautiful, and kind-hearted. Fourth, Emma does cook; I just don’t expect her to do it for every meal. She cooks for her child all the time.”
“She may be better than Kayla, but she still wants a life of luxury. You need a woman who’ll give, not just take.”
“Emma’s very giving.”
“Jamila is right for you. She’s old-fashioned, like me. We’ve spent hours on the phone and talking over coffee. She can’t wait to meet you. You listen to me; she’ll make a good wife.”
“Just not for me. I’m not interested. My time really is up. I have to go.”
Lynn sighed. “I’m not going to discourage Jamila. Emma’s not going to wait for you. Do you hear me?”
“And if Jamila does wait—a woman who doesn’t really know me but knows I’m in prison, what does that say about her?”
“Why don’t you ever listen?”
“I’m hanging up before I get into trouble.”
“Emma has a child. Do you really want to raise a child who isn’t yours?”
Her words pierced him, and he wondered if she’d feel the same if she knew the truth about her “first” grandchild. For a fleeting moment, he saw reflected through his mother, his own question about the quality of love and his confusion as to how to feel about Blake.
“Say hello to the family for me.”
Starks turned the phone off. His chest was tight. He didn’t want to think about the Blake matter right now. He hadn’t given much thought to Emma for a while; too many other things had occupied his mind. He hoped she was strong enough to wait for him, but his mother might be right about that. Was it even fair to hope Emma would still be there throughout his entire sentence and when he got out?
One more bitter pill life might expect him to swallow.
CHAPTER 59
HE NEEDED AIR. Starks put the phone back into the book and returned the book to the bottom of the stack. The digital numbers on the clock showed it was five minutes to three. After the count, he’d check out the yard, see who was outside.
The idea of losing Emma nagged him. Maybe he should marry her now. That would mean they’d be allowed conjugal visits. And although he’d told his mother he didn’t want any more children, if he got Emma pregnant, she’d never leave him. He checked his reflection in the mirror. If he decided to propose, it wouldn’t be until his hair grew out and he looked more like the man Emma loved to ride or wrap her legs around. He’d have to take his chances about the tattoo. He could always tell her that inmates held him down and forced him to get it. He could lie about his hair as well. In for a penny, in for a pound, as his grandfather used to say. She’d believe him, feel sympathy for him. She’d marry him to make him feel better.
He glanced at his stitched wrist and thought of all the scars his body now bore. Emma had often made it a point to tell him his body was perfect. How would she feel about it now? If he had this many scars after just several months, what was he going to look like when he got out? Bile rose in his throat. Starks turned the tap on and slurped water from his hand. It almost helped.
Inmates hurried to their cells as the count was called. Afterwards, Starks made his way through the two corridors, to the door that opened to the y
ard.
The heat encaged him as soon as he walked into the enclosure. It hadn’t rained for days. Patches of brown covered more area than anything green, not that there was ever much of anything green.
He scanned the area. A few members of his crew had a modified basketball game going with several of Hector Sanchez’s gang. He went to where they were playing; declined the request to join them, saying he preferred to watch. The last thing he was in the mood for was games. Any kind of games, he told himself. Nor could he play with his wrist, which he needed to get re-bandaged.
Demory was playing the game of counselor, not realizing that what he was really doing was playing the position of those who see themselves as righteous. So easy to condemn others when you don’t have to live their life.
His mother was playing the game of matchmaker, a woman who’d been divorced twice and gave up on intimate relationships. Kayla was a game master. Once again, Jeffrey was the one who was true.
Jeffrey had said that Margaret Hessinger wanted to talk to him. Why would he talk to a woman who’d lied in court and caused him to end up here?
Maybe he should talk to her. He could tell her specifics about Kayla and Ozy not revealed during the trial. Maybe even make some stuff up. Really drive the stake in and twist it. But, maybe he didn’t need to make anything up. Kayla’s former best friend, Jenny Hayes, knew even more than she’d been allowed to say during the trial, more than she’d been willing to tell him.
The prospect of such a conversation energized him. He’d talk to Margaret. But first he needed to talk to Jenny.
He heard the shout of “Head’s up” a second too late. The basketball struck him in the torso. Apologies flew from both teams. He waved them off like gnats, tossed the ball back, and made a mental list. The first thing he’d do was add three names to his visitor and call lists: Margaret, Jenny, and her husband, Richard, just in case. Then he’d call Jeffrey to set up a visit from the Hayes.