I took off my shirt and pants, realizing then that her fingers were spread and she was grinning as she watched. I said, “Cheater,” then stepped into the pool, which was deeper than I’d thought. I moved to the middle and sank to my chin.
Becky stripped as if the act were devoid of sexuality. Tossed shoes. A quick roll onto her back to pull off the jeans. She stood to remove her shirt, and I looked away because her sexuality was obvious, whether she meant it to be or not. In the water, she said, “This is nice,” then went under and rose, dripping. The pool made her eyes look something other than blue, and the water made the bra translucent. “Do you want to talk about it, now?” she asked.
I wasn’t sure if she was teasing or not, but words had never been hard for me. I spoke of my father, who thought Jason might be guilty, and of my mother, manic in the kitchen. That led to Chance and prison and the question of college versus war. When I reached the place that hurt the most, I looked away and shared my thoughts on brothers and death and the guilt I harbored for my easy life. When the words ran out, I found Becky close in the water, not touching me, but nearly so.
“What do you think?” I asked.
She stared for a handful of seconds, still silvery-eyed and lovely. “I think you have troubles, and that none of them are bigger than you.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“With your life? I can’t answer that question.”
“What about now? Today?”
“Be there for your brother. Let him know he’s not alone.”
“That’s it?”
“It’s enough,” she said; but the words, in my ears, were strange.
Be a man, I heard.
For once in your sheltered life.
* * *
Ripley returned at ten minutes before five, and Jason considered how strange it was to walk the prison halls in loafers and jeans. He’d served twenty-seven months behind these walls, a full twelve of them before he’d met X.
But those last months …
He’d fought and bled, and been brought back to fight again. Fifteen months. A blur of pain, blood, and bandages. No one had fought X so many times or come so close to beating him. For a time, the guards had wagered in secret on the conflicts, but X didn’t fight for sport—not that kind—and two days after he’d learned of the wagers, one guard lost an ear in an unprovoked bar fight, and another, his home to fire.
After that, there were no wagers.
“This way.”
Ripley led Jason down a series of halls, then outside and through the main yard. Jason watched the prisoners, and the prisoners watched him back. Blacks. Hispanics. The white prisoners paid the most attention. Nazis. Bikers. Loners with the right ink. They had a corner of the yard, and it seemed every eye was on Jason as he passed.
“Because of the Pagans,” Ripley said. “Word is out about what you did to Darius Simms.”
“Is that why I’m in solitary?”
“Let me put it this way. If guards come for you that aren’t on X’s detail, tread with serious care. X is not the only one with deep pockets and corrections officers on the payroll.”
They kept moving. So did every eyeball in every white face. After that, it was all about death row. The building was the oldest at Lanesworth, a onetime weapons depot modified in 1863 to hold Union army prisoners of war. Security inside was unpleasant, but Jason knew the guards, the protocols.
“Open one.”
A buzzer sounded, and the old hinges groaned. A second guard appeared, not one of X’s. He was midforties and florid, same buzz cut as every other guard.
Ripley said, “You got him?”
“I do.”
Ripley met Jason’s eyes for half a blink, then turned on a heel, and left without a word. A red hand settled on Jason’s arm, and put damp marks on his skin. “I’m sure you remember the rules. Stay in the center of the hall, clear of the cell doors. Don’t talk to anyone. No eye contact. Make it easy for me, I make it easy for you.”
They turned to face the row, and it was like every nightmare Jason had had since getting out: the small, hot cells, and pale faces against the metal, the long walk to the end, and then down the stairs to X.
“Walk on, prisoner.”
Jason squared up, and took that first step. If X wanted him dead, he wanted him dead. If it was something else …
He kept his eyes down as cells slid past, and one inmate hissed, Hey, slickness … hey, slick … At the end of the row, another guard stood at the top of the stairwell. He was part of X’s detail, and had been for years. Jason could not remember the name, but the face was familiar. He waved off the red-faced guard, and put a hand on Jason’s arm. “I’m sorry to see you back. You okay? You good?”
“Well enough.”
“We’ll do it like every other time.” The guard turned a key. “He’s in a good place today. You should be fine.”
Jason stepped through the door, and faced the stairs with the usual anxiety. X could speak of history and philosophy, of literature and art, the great works of mankind. In a single hour, he could show the world through fresh eyes, then just as quickly recall some far-off murder in detail so exquisite it turned your stomach. X was brilliant; he was insane.
Then there was the rest of it …
Jason flexed his oft-broken hands, and twisted once to take pressure off the poorly healed ribs. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he looked up as the guard nodded, and locked the steel door to leave Jason alone in the shadows beneath death row. There was a stone archway at the bottom of the stairs. Beyond that was the corridor and X’s cells and X.
“Hello, Jason.”
The voice was the same. So was everything else. Jason had wondered at this moment: his physical reaction, his first words. He wanted to vomit. He wished for a .45 in his hand. “You told me I was free of this place and of you. You said I was out clean.”
“I meant it at the time.” X stood center corridor, a lean man of average height, casually dressed. “Things change.”
Jason moved beneath the arch, and into the corridor. “Things like what?”
X shrugged, but seemed happy. “Let’s say that a date certain for one’s execution tends to sharpen the mind until some things become painfully acute.”
“Such as?”
“Old regrets. Final aspirations.”
“You had Tyra killed to bring me back.” It wasn’t a question. For Jason, it had never been a question.
“Sadly for the young woman, I didn’t know that you would be arrested on gun and assault charges, that I might have simply waited.”
“She was an innocent woman.”
“But was she really?” X took a few steps, eyes glinting. “She taunted the men on that bus, forgotten men with little dignity and few reasons to live. She teased and tormented them, and did it for what, exactly? A moment’s distraction? Her own venereal pride?”
“Please spare me the false indignation. You don’t care about the men on that bus. And any sins of Tyra’s pale beside your own.”
X raised his shoulders, both hands behind his back. “I’m merely deconstructing whatever narrative you’ve built in that otherwise fine mind of yours. The men on the bus are irrelevant, yes, but any positive qualities your young friend may have had, she was, at the core, selfish and unworthy.”