“Sorry!” Brenner says.
Tully picks up the ball. “Take it easy, Clemens.” He throws it back to her. This time overhand, Brenner lobs the ball to Tully.
Captain gets on the loudspeaker and, sounding much like he does when clearing head count at the House, tells the teams to clear the field. He announces the first game: the House vs. Nashua PD. O’Brien wonders if Dixon fixed the first match. The tournament isn’t only for Menser. In years past, the winner had bragging rights for a full year. Nashua has the most contact of any agency with the House, bringing new admits in on an every-shift basis, and he can picture Dixon waiting in Booking for Nashua officers to come through the sally port so he can rib them about how his boys kicked their asses.
Inside the dugout, Hobson fills out his lineup sheet. O’Brien’s feet hurt. He checks his phone but his world hasn’t ended yet. He wonders when it will. Hobson recites the lineup.
“Brenner, short field, batting tenth.”
“Hit me leadoff, boss,” Brenner says from the end of the bench.
“I don’t think so,” Hobson says.
“Come on,” she says, “what’s the difference between first and tenth? Besides, you can get my at-bat out of the way.”
Dixon rips his cigarette. “Hit her first,” he says. “I think Tully shit his jockstrap playing catch with her.” The dugout laughs.
“Oh, you assholes saw that?” Tully says. He looks down the bench to Brenner but she either doesn’t see him or snubs him.
Nashua takes the field. O’Brien sits on the bench with Pierce between his legs. He is guarding it. He has resolved to not make any more mistakes because of Tully’s lead. If he hadn’t gone to shave Pierce, hadn’t sat through Tully’s misery, then he wouldn’t have messaged Keely. If Hobson or Dixon, with their size, get up to the plate with Pierce and put a ball through some poor third baseman’s head, some squid PO or gray-haired judge, then he’ll have to live with that too. And for what? However anyone in that dugout treated Menser, they’ll have to live with that.
O’Brien thinks about the shift where he ratted on Menser for losing his cuff key on Max. He could’ve helped him, but instead let him fall because it meant propelling O’Brien past Menser on the promotion totem pole. Isn’t that what he did? O’Brien doesn’t know what his intentions were but does know his actions. He sometimes believes not sparing Menser that day might have been the provocation that started Menser’s descent. There is no going back. Menser lived only one life. Nothing will change how he chose not to forgive or rage but to leave.
“I’m up,” Brenner says. “Come on, they’re waiting.”
“Give her Pierce,” Tully says. “Let’s win this thing.”
“It’s dead,” says O’Brien. “No pop left.”
“Plenty left,” Tully says.
Brenner grabs the barrel but O’Brien holds tight to the handle. He looks up at her from the bench. She isn’t giving up. He doesn’t want to get into a tug-of-war with her. He relents and gives Brenner the doctored bat. And for no good reason, he’s relieved. He’s absolved of whatever happens next. He refuses to envision the alternative scenario, so he pictures Keely reading his message with utter disbelief; first she’d double-check the sender, then she’d smile and with a bite of her lip spend hours deciding what to send back. She’s smart, so she’d play through all the scenarios and she’d land on one where she could answer back ever so modestly and there’d be a back-and-forth, innocent banter like notes passed in class. They’d have to be careful, just as if passing notes; their correspondence could be confiscated. It’d be fine. Bomb it. When bombs level a village, a town, a city, you can always rebuild.
Brenner approaches the plate. She tucks her shoulder under her chin. The officer pitching must be a high rank because he is old, mid-sixties, with sneakers instead of cleats, and he heaves a high pitch toward the plate. Brenner shifts her weight, swings the majestic blue, white, and red stick at the ball and ropes it straight back where it came from. Off the pitcher’s head, with a sound like the tick of a loud clock, the ball bounces high in the air, suspends, and though from the spectators comes a collective “Ooooo,” Brenner still breaks for first with her head down. Clumped dirt kicks up behind her strides, and the ball seems to be rising at such a clip that it will never come down.
Gen Pop U4 Cell #2341
Dialogue III
DON:
Bag and baggage. The two best words a man wants to hear in this shithole.
RAY:
That’s three words. But I get you.
DON:
You don’t have to do that, Ray. I can strip my own bed.
RAY:
Not your bed anymore. I don’t mind. Don, I don’t mind. They’re going to stick some young kid in here. I know it. Probably some spaz from Nashua with a fucking man bun.
DON:
Ask the CO. All the shit you do around here. Mop the floors, lunch duty.
RAY:
I did lunch once. And you got me written up because I gave you an extra apple. How you forget these things, Don, I have no fucking clue.
DON:
You’ll be fine. Just fine.
RAY:
Yeah, I’ll be upstate soon anyways. Spin the bag. At the top of the net. Yeah, like that, spin it. Here, I’ll tie it. Don, I’ll tie it. They want it tight in Booking or they’ll make you do it again. Haven’t you ever B and B’d before?
DON:
My first stint here, back in ninety-five, I went straight upstate. I didn’t even have a chance to get my shit from the cell. They sent it in a box a few weeks later and half my mail and pictures were missing.
RAY:
Don’t kid anyone. You didn’t have any pictures.
DON:
Hand me that folder. That one there, under my coffee cup. I’ll leave that cup for you. Give it a good scrub. Don’t inspect it. It’s fine. It’s free. Take it.
RAY:
I’m going to need to bleach this thing.
DON:
The folder. Get over the cup. Throw it out. I don’t give a shit.
RAY:
Here.
DON:
My daughter. No, the one on the left.
RAY:
Holy shit, Don. You couldn’t give me some time alone with this picture?
DON:
Fuck off. Give it here. This is the only one I got left of her. Cocksuckers lost the rest. Her baby pictures. Gone.
RAY:
Ask her for some. Your ex must have a bunch.
DON:
I’m going to see her. I can ask her.
RAY:
Your ex?
DON:
She thinks she can hide. I’m going to find her. She doesn’t know what she wants. She never did. I’ll swoop in and show her what she’s missed. I’m done being the old Don. No more drinking. Or hitting. She’ll see. My lawyer got me another shot and I’m not losing it.
RAY:
That’s good, that’s good. Your ride’s here. You’re not going to hug me, are you?
DON:
Not unless you want me to.
RAY:
I don’t want to see you ever again, Don. Not ever.
DON:
I’ll try. I’ll really try.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’ve had many fantastic teachers. I’m grateful for Andre Dubus III for seeing something in me, for teaching me to care about my characters, to go deeper. To my mentors who helped shape the book, thank you for your insight: Mitch Wieland, Ben Nugent, and Tony Tulathimutte. To Drew Johnson, who gave me the best writing advice ever: Read.
I am indebted to Daniel Johnson, who read each phase of this work with an unrivaled editorial eye, who talked me off many ledges, lent me books, and reassured me that my work is important. I’ll repay you with beer.
To Andrew Martino, who gave me a quiet space to write. Thanks to Paul Marion, who champions all writers from Lowell, Mass.
To all the correctional officers out there. The job
isn’t glamorous; it is absolutely thankless; what you do every day matters. To my former brothers and sisters, especially the ones who made the job manageable: McBournie, Jordan, Gordon, Richard, Barbera, Torres, Frender. Stay safe and watch your back.
Thank you to my agent, Alexa Stark, for believing in me, and in this book, and for getting it out into the world. And to Callie Garnett at Bloomsbury USA, for your hard work and your vision. None of this would have happened without either of you.
Thank you to my family. My children, Calvin and May, who keep me on my toes. My mother, Robin, who showed me how to be strong in a world full of losses. My brothers, Mike and Joe, for support. My sister, Erin, for being my academic sibling rival all those years ago. My father, Rick, who read in front of us, who encouraged my art and is a continued inspiration. We miss you.
This book would not have been possible without the support of my wife, Leah. You keep me going. We did it.
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
DAVID MOLONEY worked in the Hillsborough County Department of Corrections, New Hampshire, from 2007 to 2011. He received a BA in English and creative writing from the University of Massachusetts Lowell, where he now teaches. He lives north of Boston with his family.
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This electronic edition first published in the United States 2020
Copyright © David Moloney, 2020
The text here was published in slightly different form as “Bubble Time” in Salamander no. 49, Fall/Winter 2019–2020.
The text here was adapted from “Dzole, Our Champion,” Guernica, September 17, 2018.
The text here was published in slightly different form as “Property” in Yale Review 108, no. 1, March 2020.
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ISBN: HB: 978-1-63557-416-6; eBook: 978-1-63557-417-3
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Moloney, David, 1984– author.
Title: Barker House / David Moloney.
Description: New York, NY: Bloomsbury Publishing, 2020.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019013382 | ISBN 9781635574166 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781635574173 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PS3613.O48 B37 2020 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019013382
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