All Rise for the Honorable Perry T. Cook (2 page)

B
ig Ed is about to tell it again. He greets all the new ones. He sits them down, tells them about the place, and gets to know them as quick as he can. Being a welcomer is part of his work at Blue River, which is the biggest thing you'll find in the teeny-tiny town of Surprise, Nebraska.

Big Ed asks, “Are you from around here?”

The new resident shakes his head no. He sets his dinner tray down across from us. The answer is almost always no because Surprise is a long way from most places.

“You know why they call it Surprise?” Big Ed asks. “It's because this little nowhere-Nebraska town gets an impressive amount of snow. But the snow is not the surprise. What you find after it melts—now that's the surprise. Uh-huh. Things you never knew you lost. Of course, I'm talking
mostly about folks on the outside. Here on the inside, well, most of us have nothing left to lose. Or it can feel that way.”

Big Ed laughs. He sounds like a harmonica. Then comes his coughing. He has to pull himself together before he can go on. “But spring comes and on the outside they find all sorts of things. Baseballs and dog bones. That favorite pair of garden gloves all flattened down into the mud and grass. Maybe even a set of keys. And don't we all wish we had the keys around here. Huh, Perry?” Big Ed gives me such a nudge I almost spill my milk.

The new rez—that's short for resident—listens nicely enough. I wonder how long he's going to be here. Maybe not so long. Depends on what he did. Depends on what's been decided. Sometimes I hear. Sometimes they tell me. I never ask.

Big Ed tells the new guy, “You'll see so much snow outside these windows it'll make you forget that grass is green.” He always pauses for several seconds right here. Then he says, “Unless, of course, you're doing a catnap.” A
catnap
means a short stay.

Big Ed leaves a little airtime, waits to see if the new rez feels like talking. He might tell him about his sentencing. Sometimes they do. Sometimes they don't.

This guy dips his head like he's talking to that bowl of turkey chili on his dinner tray. “I got eight months,” he says. He doesn't say what he's in for. Meanwhile, he keeps eyeing me. Big Ed claps a hand on my shoulder and tells the guy,
“This here is Perry. Perry T. Cook.”

I put my hand out. The guy waits. He looks to the right and left where the supervisors are standing. He's knows he's being watched, and he's trying to figure out what is allowed. There are rules about contact.

“Handshaking is okay,” I tell him. “As long as it's brief.”

Big Ed says, “You can listen to Perry. He knows it all.”

I push my hand closer to the new rez. Last try. Finally, we shake.

“Name's Wendell,” he says, and I don't know if he means that's his first name, last name, or only name. Mom's rule is, I can call the adults whatever they tell me to call them, but she wants me to add Mr., Mrs., or Miss to the front end. For Big Ed, well, I just added “Big,” and I guess nobody ever corrected me. It was such a long time ago. He's the only rez at Blue River who's been here longer than Mom and me.

“What's a kid doing here outside of visiting hours?” The new guy wants to know.

“I call him my Morning Son,” says Big Ed. (It's an old story.) “Perry makes sure we all wake up on time.”

“The kid will be here in the morning?” Mr. Wendell looks confused. New ones always do until it dawns on them that I live at the Blue River Co-ed Correctional Facility here in teeny-tiny Surprise, Nebraska.

From behind the serving counter in the kitchen, we hear Eggy-Mon dishing up the last trays of supper for the evening. He thinks all food deserves poetry. Tonight he calls,
“Get your gobbling-good order from south of the border, with a hunk of corn bread, or white rice instead.”

Mom comes by with her tray in her hands. “Perry, down the hatch with that milk, pal.” She sounds impatient, and she has left more than half her supper. It's strange because she doesn't waste food, and the turkey chili is not that bad. I take my milk carton in both hands and gulp it back so fast my throat aches. Bad manners. But Mom needs me to move along tonight. Something's up with her, and I don't want to add to her trouble. Neither does Big Ed. He gives me a pat on the back and says, “Good man, Perry.”

Earlier today, Warden Daugherty called Mom into her office for a conversation. Whatever that was about, it put Mom on a tilt. Now it's one of those weird days when everybody knows something's going on. Everybody but me.

“I want to have one more look at that map of the middle school with you before lockdown,” Mom says. She glances at the gray clock on the wall, and so do I. We have to pay attention to the time at Blue River. At nine p.m. I have to be in my bedroom next to the warden's office off the Upper East Lounge.

Mom has to be in her room down at the end of the hall on Cell Block C.

I
t's 6:23 a.m. I scoot forward and put my lips close to the microphone of the prison PA system. I always begin quietly. Warden Daugherty comes to wake me every day, and she is gentle about it. So I do the same for all the residents at Blue River.

“Good morning,” I say in my slow, low voice. “This is Perry at sunrise. It is Tuesday, the sixth of September. If you need a reason to bother getting up today, well, it's probably not the weather. ‘Tut-tut, it looks like rain.' That's the quote of the day—comes from Christopher Robin, by the way, and if you don't know who he is then maybe it's time for you to get some literature in your life. Mrs. Buckmueller and the Bucking Blue Bookmobile will be here to restock the Leisure Library from four o'clock to five o'clock, and don't forget, she takes requests.”

I glance at Warden Daugherty. She smiles as she leafs
through a stack of papers. She likes it when I give literacy a plug. The clock on the wall above her desk reads 6:26. I lean toward the mic again.

“The news on the outside is, it's the first day of school in Butler County. That means I'll be gone all day. Don't miss me too much. The good news for all of you is, waffles are popping out of the toasters down in the caf. Scrams are in the pan. They're even letting some fruit cocktail out of the jar. Choice of beverage, as usual. Remember, there are no knives in the flatware trays at Blue River, so get used to that spork for however long you'll be with us.”

I lean away from the mic and whisper to Warden Daugherty, “That last part is for the new intake, Mr. Wendell.”

She whispers back to me, “I'm sure he will feel most welcome now.” She points to the clock without looking at it. She doesn't need to. The warden is so precise you can almost hear her ticking.

Six twenty-nine and a half a.m. Time for me to get louder. I grip the mic in my hand like I'm about to fly a plane.

“Ooo . . . kay, residents of Blue River! If you're not up by now, time to get up!” The finish has to be big. It's the same every day. I take a deep breath and bellow. “Al-l-l-l-l rise!”

I turn off the mic and hustle toward the door. I stick my head into the hallway and listen for morning release. Six thirty a.m. Locks disengage. Doors click and creak. Toilets flush, and the residents yawn themselves awake.

Foreman Joe is coming up the hall from Block A, which
is one of the men's wings. “Good morning, Fo-Joe.” I started calling him that when I was little. (
R
s tripped me up when I was first learning to talk. I used to call myself
Peh-wee
.) “How's things?” I ask. But I don't really want to know, not right now, and Fo-Joe knows it.

“Things?” he says slowly. “Well, let me see . . .”

I chew the inside of my lip and wait. He's being slow on purpose.

“Things are fine. But I'm wondering what they fed you all for dinner last night. Was it burritos? Because . . .” He stops, pinches his nose. Fans the air. “That morning release had some fire on it.”

“Turkey chili,” I tell him. “With beans.” Then before he can go on and on about that, I remind him, “Hey, Fo-Joe, it's the first day of school.”

“Oh yeah!” he says. “Thus the new sneakers, hey?”

I look at my feet. “Can I go?” I ask.

“To school?”

“Fo-Joe!” He knows what I want. I am already facing Block C. I'm crouched into a runner's stance. But I have to wait for permission. It's one of the rules. “Fo-Joe. Puh-leese!”

“Perry?” he says.

“Yeah?”

“Are you still here?”

I am not. I am off like a flash, sprinting toward Mom's room at the end of the hallway on Block C.

J
essica Cook liked to be out of her room before Perry reached her in the morning. Maybe it was silly. Her boy knew that his mom was locked in at night. He knew that she had to wait in her room for morning release just like any other resident at Blue River.

Release
. The word ricocheted between her ears. Not morning release. Get-out-of-prison-for-good release. Jessica shook her head. She tried to will herself not to think about it until there was something definite. Trouble was, she couldn't think of anything else. She'd been awake most of the night, and the thought stuck while she did her morning push-ups, crunches, and hamstring stretches on the person-size patch of floor beside her bed. Jessica had coached at least a hundred residents through the release process at Blue River. That was her work here, and it was a little bit twisted considering she had not had the pleasure herself. But that
day should be coming.

She had served nearly twelve years of a fifteen-year sentence. She could apply for parole in just a few more weeks.
Finally.
There would be a process. But up until yesterday, she'd had every reason to think—every reason to hope—that come the frosts of late October she'd be a free woman. She'd had been coaching Perry for the day they'd leave the only home he'd known.

But now, this glitch. The warden had received word that there was a wrench in the works. No details, just yet.

Do not lose hope, she thought.

She propped her door open while she brushed her teeth. Foreman Joe usually let Perry head down immediately after the all-rise. Her boy would be sprinting, and he was fast—and getting faster.

Minimum security meant that she stayed in a narrow, dorm-like room, not a cell behind bars. This was not a crusted prison from a late-night movie. In fact, Blue River was a campus with natural light in some of the common areas, and not-so-horrible colors on the walls. Those were the good things she told herself about this place. She was locked up. Hard fact. But being assigned to the facility in Surprise had been a little spot of good inside a blurry nightmare of bad.

The years had been bearable because her boy had lived with her for eleven of them. Such arrangements were unheard of. So lucky. Still, she longed to get him out of here
and begin that new life on the outside, when her time, and Perry's time, would be their own.

Jessica spat toothpaste into the saucepan-size sink at the back of her toilet. She ran the faucet to wash her hands then quickly pulled her hair into a high ponytail. She checked her bed again, though she'd already tucked it tight as a springboard. A surprise room inspection could come at any time, and if there was one thing she hated, it was being reprimanded in front of Perry. Jessica toed the line.

She heard her son's sneakers slapping along the low-pile carpeting, pounding his way toward her. She broke into a grin as she jumped out into the hallway.

Perry was arriving, nostrils flaring like a racer and blue eyes wide beneath the cap of dark hair. (More and more he looked like another boy she'd once known.) He was beautiful, she thought. He was hope in a new pair of cross-trainers. Jessica opened her arms, her boy leapt, and she caught him for the swing-around, which she was pleased she could still manage. So far. Then with Perry back on his feet again, the two exchanged good mornings and started down to breakfast.

“How are you feeling about school?” she asked.

“Nervous. Excited.” Perry rocked his head side to side as he spoke. Jessica tucked her fingers into his hair for just a moment.

“I'm feeling the same way for you,” she said. “But some
things won't change. Miss Maya will still pick you up here. Now that you are in the middle school you'll see her during the day.”

“Yup,” he said, and Jessica felt her son give a little shrug beside her. They'd already gone over it. Perry was his quieter self this morning. She should let him be.

“I'm glad Zoey's on Team Three with me,” Perry offered. “Same homeroom.”

“I'm glad too,” Jessica said, and she was. This was where Perry's not-so-ordinary upbringing had worried her. There was the stigma of the prison. But also, for a kid, he had a strangely adult social circle—the nearly impossible mix of ragtag and colorful, half-lost and fate-tossed nonviolent residents at Blue River. Meanwhile, she, his mother, had never been able to meet the one young girl he called his “best friend on the outside.”

When Perry had first mentioned Zoey Samuels, Jessica had pulled Maya Rubin aside and said, “Please tell me she's not imaginary.” Maya, Warden Daugherty's niece and Perry's main escort on the outside, had promised that yes, Zoey was real. She'd also remarked that Perry was as good a friend to the girl as she was to him.

Jessica felt relieved to know he had a friend. That part hadn't been easy. A lot of questions might be asked. Rumors might be whispered behind the slender back of a boy who called a correctional facility home.

Well, the day was coming—or was supposed to be coming—that she and Perry would both leave Blue River.

“Mom?”

“What?”

“Is something wrong? Something you can tell me?”

“No, no. I am just never going to be a ‘Yay, September!' mother,” Jessica said as they passed the warden's office. “I'm only lending you to that school because I'm nice. I'm really going to miss you today.”

“I've got the camera. I'll bring you pictures.”

“Boy, that was the best gift ever,” she said, and not for the first time. The camera was a hand-me-down; the benefactress was Zoey Samuels, who had somehow ended up with two. The camera had been a boon for a locked-in mother who ached not to be locked out of those hours her son spent on the outside.

Jessica and Perry accidentally brushed hands as they walked. He looked up and gave her a comforting half smile.

Her boy had not seen her in her tiny locking room this morning. She noted it as a win. It was one of the ways Jessica preserved hope. You do a lot of that when you have fifteen years to serve—parole after twelve.
If
everything goes right.