“I need you to come here, Olive,” Owen says after a moment. “I need to see you. I need to tell you something in person.”
“What?” I ask.
“It’s something I can’t say over the phone.”
“They record the in-person conversations as well,” I point out.
“I know, but—”
“Listen,” I interrupt him. “I know what you’re doing. It’s just a ploy to get me out of here.”
“I lied,” Owen says after a moment. I wait for an explanation.
“I don’t need to tell you something in person. I need you to come here and testify at my parole hearing.”
My mouth drops open.
“They just told me after I hung up with you. That’s why I called back.”
“Congratulations,” I say after a moment.
“Thank you.”
Getting parole is a long shot but, in prison, it’s important to celebrate every good thing that comes your way.
It doesn’t mean you’re jinxing yourself or setting yourself up for some disappointment, it’s about being in the present.
The Department of Corrections gave Owen’s case a once-over and he qualified for a hearing before the board.
Under any other circumstances, I would be jumping up and down and doing everything short of throwing him a party over the phone. But today…I can’t.
“I’m sorry,” I catch myself. “I didn’t mean to just gloss over it. It’s a really big deal, Owen. I’m really happy for you.”
“Thank you. I’m happy, too.”
“You should’ve led the conversation with that, though,” I point out. “You kind of buried the lead.”
We stay on the phone for a few minutes. I wish more than anything that we hadn’t talked about Nicholas and he hadn’t told me any of those things.
I don’t want to bring it up again and force another lecture.
I just want all of that stuff to disappear.
But that’s not what life is about, is it? No matter how much you want to wish something away, it doesn’t go away without you actually doing something about it.
“Please come,” Owen pleads.
“When is it?”
“Two days from now.”
“What?” I gasp.
“They had some sort of glitch in the system. They were supposed to notify me sooner but they didn’t. That’s all I know.”
“Are they even going to let me in?” I ask, thinking back to the one time when I drove all the way up to the prison, woke up in the dark, got in line to wait to come inside with the rest of the wives and girlfriends of the incarcerated only to be turned away for no reason.
They didn’t let Owen have visitors that week but no one cared to notify either Owen or myself, even though I had registered to come.
I have been to that prison a dozen times since but it still irks me the way the guards treat the visitors, as if we are the convicts as well, as if we had done something wrong.
“They said that they will take a statement from someone on my side. I’d like that person to be you,” Owen says.
“I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t know if I can get back in time.”
“Will you try?”
I nod.
“Olive? Will you try?”
18
When I run away…
This time, when I hang up, I put the phone on the table and leave it there. Rain which had been threatening to come down all morning finally lets loose.
Water falls in a loud steady stream, interrupted only by bolts of lightning and rolling waves of thunder.
I look at the way the rain pounds the big green bush, the name of which I don’t know, right on the porch. When I open the door, my senses are overwhelmed by an intoxicating aroma of hot, wet vegetation.
I put my foot out past the awning and it immediately becomes soaked. I put it back and then stick my hand out.
Droplets run off my fingertips as if they were rain gutters.
I take a few steps forward and open my face up to the sky.
I welcome the beads of water that smash into me and even stick my tongue out.
“What are you doing?” His voice sounds muffled and originates somewhere in the distance.
I stand up straight and spin on my heels to face him. Nicholas, dressed in a casual Hawaiian shirt and khaki pants, is holding a large umbrella over his head.
“Just enjoying the warm rain,” I say. “Haven’t you ever done this?”
“Not recently. C’mon,” he says, walking past me into my cottage. “I have to talk to you about something.”
The air-conditioning feels cool on my skin and goose bumps immediately cover my body.
My clothes are soaked.
I step out of my soggy flip-flops. Nicholas gets a towel in the bathroom and hands it to me. I use it to wipe my face and dry my hair. The towel is too fat to pile on top of my head.
“Do you want to change?” he asks, sitting down on the couch in the living room. “I’ll wait.”
It’s a request that’s in the form of a question. Not long ago, I found this to be incredibly charming and not at all threatening. But knowing what I know now…I am not so sure.
I go to the other room and change into another long sleeve shirt and a cropped pair of yoga pants.
When I come out, I see Nicholas at my computer. My account has logged out but the screen is still up.
“Who do you know in prison?” he asks.
I crack my knuckles.
“Why are you looking through my stuff?” I ask.
“I wanted to check what the weather will be tomorrow. I forgot my phone back at the house.”
His explanation is plausible enough the way that good explanations typically go.
I consider lying, pretending that it’s someone else I know who is in prison but what if I told him truth? Would that turn the tables? Would it catch him off guard?
“My brother, Owen, is doing a stretch for an armed robbery charge,” I say.
My chest swells with pride using the right lingo just like the incarcerated do.
“Do you know him?” I ask.
The question slips out before I have a chance to really consider it. His eyes snap back and focus on mine. His face remains blank, devoid of all expression.
“Your brother?” he asks, buying more time. I nod and wait.
“Same last name? Owen Kernes?”
Again, I nod and wait.
“No.” He shakes his head. “I don’t think I do.”
Our eyes remain locked on each other. He lies so effortlessly it makes my skin crawl.
“Why, did he say something?”
“No, not at all.” I shake my head trying to be as nonchalant as he is.
Nicholas invites me back to his house for some dinner and I feel compelled to go. I don’t have any plans with Sydney and he knows full well that I have nothing else to do. We both have to eat. Plus, I don’t want to raise any suspicion.
As we devour the meal that his chef has prepared, we don’t speak.
My thoughts focus on the way his body tensed up just a bit when I asked about Owen. I don’t know if that means anything, or if I’m just reading too much into everything. Still I can’t shake this feeling that he’s lying.