Transcontinental (13 page)

Ant stopped and took a moment, sighing, before dragging himself over to the main building. Without thinking twice, he stepped inside.

For a prison, the place was rather inviting. A blue and white berber carpet lined the floor, with wooden furniture in light hues and informational posters plastered onto the walls. A plump woman with brown hair growing in gray at the roots and an abundance of blush typed busily at the front desk.

“Good morning. Visitor’s center, please,” Ant said.

Eyes still on the computer monitor, she pointed to a sign on the wall, typing with one hand in the absence of the other. “Follow the arrows.”

Ant obliged.

* * *

Leroy didn’t know how long he’d been laying on the bench, as he’d been drifting in and out of a light sleep, but if the amount of sweat dripping off him was any indication, it must’ve been a while.

He’d been tired a lot more than usual recently, he noticed, but he chalked it up to mental, not to mention physical, exhaustion. The upheaval of his old life was bound to take a toll, and if all it cost him was a nap now and then, well, that would be just about best-case-scenario.

Sleeping while he waited for a phone call wasn’t the smartest idea, but whatever; he didn’t understand why Ant had to call him, anyway. If he missed the call, he’d just get the information when Ant got back, which for his hydration’s sake, he hoped would be soon. How long could it take to drag a name and maybe an address out of the man? Even if that man
was
Roy Smiley.

Occasionally Leroy had glanced around in a half-asleep stupor and caught the receptionist glaring at him through the glass doors of the hospital, which ordinarily would’ve caused him to leave for fear of getting yelled at, but at the moment it didn’t bother him. He was still blissfully consumed by the fact that he didn’t have to see his father. It was the one aspect of the trip that had troubled him above all others, and as if by magic it was wiped off his to-do list. He could hardly believe it still. Should be smooth sailing from here, he thought.

He felt so empowered, in fact, that he decided he was going to go right inside and ask if they had a water cooler. Hospitals had those, right? Sick people would certainly appreciate a cool glass of water, he figured.

Leroy slung the bag over his shoulder and made for the door.

* * *

“Photo identification, please.”

The security guard at the visitor’s center, another full-figured woman nearly as tall as he was, which oddly enough, Ant found attractive, held her hand out to him. He examined it, lost in the paper-thin grooves of her palm and the slender curves of her fingers, then snapped out of it and forked over his ID. Not the best time for his weakness for women to rear its head.

She glanced alternately at Ant and his driver’s license, typed his name into the system, then handed the card back to him. “And Social Security.”

Ant recited the numbers with which he’d been born, as the woman’s blue and white swirled fingernails, perhaps to match the office decor, clacked on the keyboard. He shifted his weight, standing before his very own Saint Peter. Unlike heaven, entering wasn’t the hard part—the problem was leaving.

The guard scanned the screen as Ant awaited for the inevitable response of hostility that would begin the long process of his incarceration. Thus, he wasn’t at all surprised when she lifted her gaze from the screen and planted it firmly on his face, giving him a full-on stink-eye. Better get used to it, he thought. It would likely prove to be the kindest look anyone would give him for years.

His serene calm had dissipated into numb anticipation. He had to admit, though, that he was looking forward to meeting his cellmate. He wasn’t sure if prisoners got cellmates at Folsom, but he hoped so. Even a hulking murderer who liked to cuddle forcibly would be better than solitude.
 

“And who are you here to see, Mr. Bevilacqua?”

He wanted to tell her not to call him mister, that he didn’t deserve the title, that
no one
really deserved that title, but decided to forego it. He’d learned to choose his battles, and though he wished to engage her in conversation regardless of the subject, he knew being a smart ass wouldn’t get him anywhere. Perhaps he could do a little sweet talking if they ever crossed paths, maybe during his brief daily allotment of free time.

“Roy Smiley,” Ant replied, feeling old.

“That son of a bitch?” The guard snorted. “Good luck.”

He’d been so focused on his own impending lockup that he’d practically forgotten why he was there. He was going to meet Leroy’s father. He looked forward to seeing where the boy came from, even if he was a son of a bitch. The notion brought a bit of feeling back to him.

A loud
buzz
shot through the hallway, and the door opened. Ant stepped through, and another guard wrapped a paper bracelet around his right wrist.

“Does this indicate that I am old enough to buy alcohol?”

The guard didn’t find Ant’s joke amusing. Taking care to stay in front, the man silently led him down the hall. On the walls were pictures of wardens and other executives of the prison dating back nearly a century. The vast majority of them were old and white and male, Ant noticed as he passed. How perfectly fitting. He stared hard at the image of Rick Hill, the current warden, a clean cut man years younger than him. Better get used to that face.

* * *

Leroy shivered as a gulp of water cold enough to make his teeth ache splashed down his throat. It felt like it’d been forever since he had a drink that wasn’t warmer than room temperature.

In the corner of the empty waiting room, he shivered for another reason: his sweat-soaked shirt clung like a wetsuit, chilling him in the wintry hospital.

Across the room, the receptionist peeked at him before twitching away and returning to her phone conversation. What did she think was going to happen? Did she expect him to steal the cooler, or a chair?

As he sipped from the conical paper cup, he saw a man in scrubs with a hair net and clipboard engage the receptionist. She put the call on hold and turned to him, away from Leroy. This was his opportunity. He didn’t know what for, since as far as he knew there was no rule prohibiting him from being there, but he snuck into the hallway regardless.

On the walls were pictures of chiefs of staff and other high-ranking employees. Leroy noted that each of them up until the late eighties was an old white male, and even then the females were white. Figured.

He entered the bathroom and was hit by a thick floral scent, not unpleasant but a bit overwhelming. He gawked at the paint on the walls, a lighter shade of cream dappled with a darker mocha brown by what must’ve been a sponge. It was a simple technique, but it produced such a fascinating effect. That same sense of creativity, a desperate impulse to compose, burbled up in him like acid reflux.

And yet it saddened Leroy. This was probably the finest room he’d ever been in, and it was a public bathroom. The bathroom he’d shared with only his mother had never been near this clean, and this one probably saw dozens of people a day. He grew ashamed of himself, of how he’d allowed himself to live.

Crowded bouquets of flowers framed the spotless mirror on each side. He rubbed one of the petals between his fingers. They were real. This place had fresh flowers daily, and he couldn’t even bother to clean off the toilet seat. Sure, there were employees paid to take care of these things for the hospital, but it didn’t change the fact that Leroy had found it difficult to accomplish a simple menial task.

Leroy left the bathroom feeling no more cheerful, but a little lighter. He’d been in the hospital for a good ten minutes. Better get back outside.

Ambling through the hall, he cast an offhand glance into an occupied room, and stopped in his tracks. He knew it was impossible, but he could swear the man curled up on the hospital bed was Ant. Leroy stepped into the room.

He lay on his side, facing away from Leroy. Darkened from exposure to the sun, the man’s olive skin contrasted with the white gown he was shrouded in. His hair, salt and pepper and only stubble, matched Ant’s exactly. Even the shape of his head was similar.

He knew there was no way it was Ant on the bed, but he was compelled to make sure. Stepping around the bedside, he glimpsed the man’s face.

In an instant, the knot in Leroy’s gut unraveled. Of course it wasn’t Ant; the man’s nose was too small, his lips too big, and his eyes set too close together. Leroy breathed deeply as a figure moved into the doorway.

“Who are you?” the nurse said, glancing at her clipboard. “There’s no family listed here. If you aren’t family, you gotta go.”

“I’m sorry. Thought I recognized him, is all. I’ll go.”

Leroy squeezed around the nurse, who refused to move from the doorway for a moment, even to let him out, despite her request. On his way through the waiting room, he filled another cup with ice cold water and carried it through the front door, the receptionist glaring at him the entire time. He hated to leave the cool lobby, but he had to.

Outside, it took a moment for the ringing to register with him, but when he realized it was the pay phone he dashed off, spilling his water on the concrete. It was only a dozen yards away. He didn’t know how long it had been ringing, but he felt he could make it if he just ran fast enough.

By the time he picked up, though, he knew it was too late. As he put the receiver to his ear, an infuriating dial tone confirmed it. Why couldn’t Ant have waited just a little longer, just another damn ring or two? He slammed the phone down on the hook. He could blame Ant all he wanted, but deep down Leroy knew the only one to blame was himself.

* * *

Ant clasped his hands under his chin at the first in the row of phone booths, unintentionally eavesdropping on the only other visitor in the room. He’d waited fifteen minutes already. How could it take so long to get a prisoner to the visitor’s center? Roy was not exactly indisposed.

At the other end of the row, a woman stared longingly at a bald, tattooed man through the glass as she recounted a child’s birthday. How could this guy, locked up in this hell hole, not be satisfied with somebody—anybody—who cared about him? For a moment Ant wished he could trade places with the man and have a woman long for him like that, instead of dealing with a son of a bitch who was likely as disinterested in conversation as the bald man seemed.

This, however, was about Leroy, not him. Ant couldn’t go back and change the way he’d lived, but he
could
better the way Leroy lived. He would.

Then, on the other side of the glass, a guard opened the door. In stepped an inmate, portly over what must’ve once been an impressive physique, and lighter skinned than Leroy, that Ant could only assume was Roy. Even after seemingly letting himself go, he was intimidating. He sauntered into the room without looking at Ant, throwing a suspicious glance at the bald man on the phone, who did the same. As he sat, he seemed to look everywhere and nowhere at once.

Roy gripped the phone and put it to his ear, lazily licking his teeth under his lips, as he finally glanced at Ant, who grabbed the other phone. Some time passed before he realized Roy wasn’t going to speak. Unsure of where to start, he said “Do you not wonder why an ostensibly random man has come to visit you out of the blue?”

“Don’t much care,” Roy replied in a deep, gruff voice.

“My name is Antoine Bevilacqua. I have a few questions for you.”

“Told y’all before, ain’t doin’ no interview.”

“Although I have the utmost respect for journalists, I am not one.”

“Oh yeah, great people.” Roy sucked his teeth and looked off.

“Well,
real
journalists.”

Roy grunted.

“What are you in here for, Mr. Smiley?”

“You the one visited me. You don’t know?”

Ant shook his head.

“Just pick a random inmate, or what?” Roy said.

Ant looked back at him silently.

Drawing each word out, Roy said “I killed my boy.”

He looked at Roy cock-eyed. “I was just with Leroy.”

“Not him, fool. My first-born. Baron.” Roy looked away.

The response rocked Ant. His thoughts clouded over. Tinnitus grew louder inside his head, forcing everything else out. Poor Leroy. Ant couldn’t imagine the psychological effects of a lie of that caliber. A wave of profound sadness for the boy pulled him under.

A smirk tilted Roy’s lips.

“Are you aware that Leroy is under the impression Baron was an imaginary friend?” Ant asked, a faint ringing left in his ears.

“Do it look like I have much say in the boy’s life?”

Ant rubbed his closed eyes, still in disbelief.

“Wouldn’t put it past that mother of his, though.”

Ant looked up. “You do realize that she passed recently, right?”

That tilted smirk came back. “I heard.”

“Did the prison prohibit you from attending the funeral?”

“Nah, they asked me if I wanted to go. Told ‘em fuck no I didn’t. ‘Less she got mauled by a bear and it was open casket or somethin’,” he chuckled. “Bitch killed herself. Like she had it so bad. Look at
me
.”

The man’s insensitivity astounded Ant. “And what about Leroy?”