The sounds were eerie and sharp. The clicking of typewriter keys from a nearby office. The strong scent of hair balm and onions as they passed by a man who sat in front of a wavy glass door. The rustle of papers, the click of the guard’s boot heels on the floor. The jangle of the chain on the handcuffs, a higher-pitched sound than that made by ankle cuffs, but the same kind of ringing noise that mocked him.
There was the jangle of keys, the click of a locked door. A solid metal door slid open with a loud grating of the sliders, and Hank just stood there, staring at a wide bay of iron cells as if he’d stepped back into his worst nightmare.
The guard nudged him forward with a billy club. He walked slowly because he felt as if the walls were moving toward him, closing in. It was harder to breathe. It was harder to walk, to lift each foot closer.
And it was even harder not to yell and fight and try to run. Because every instinct inside of him said, “Run, run, do it! Do it! Sucker! You’re a sucker. A chump!”
They stopped in front of an empty cell, and he heard the familiar rattling keys and the lock opening. He walked inside, staring at the cement brick walls, at the enameled tin pitcher and bowl that sat in a dark corner, at the bunk with one thin wool blanket folded neatly on the edge of a striped tick mattress and one flat feather pillow.
The cell door closed hard, clanging clear through him. He didn’t flinch. He listened to the guard’s heels clicking down the cell block, listened to the door squeak open, then close with a bang. Then he listened to the silence.
He didn’t know how long he stood there. The only light was from a weak lamp outside the cell. He heard another prisoner cough, a hacking static sound.
Hank walked over to the wall, looked at the gray bricks, the solid bricks. He slammed his fist against them three... four... five times until his hand was bleeding. His breath came harsh and abrupt as if the air wasn’t there.
He looked at his knuckles, stared at the blood. He drew back to hit the wall again but then stopped and stared at the swipes of blood on the concrete bricks—bloody brown against gray. Blank, void gray.
He leaned into the wall, his palm flat against it, his forehead resting on his arm.
His hand began to shake.
But no one saw it.
His shoulders shook, too.
But no one saw him standing there.
No one saw his face.
It was buried in his arm.
And no one knew he cried.
* * *
The doorof the visitation roomclosed, blocking out the sounds of Theodore’s chattering as the children left with their grandfather.
“Smitty.”
Margaret looked at Hank sitting on the other side of a divider with a guard behind him.
“Don’t bring them here again.”
“Hank, please.”
“I mean it, dammit! Don’t bring them here. Children don’t belong here.”
“Neither do you.” She gave him a direct look. “I’m sorry. I never wanted you to have to go through this again. I—” She stopped, because words seemed useless.
He touched her hand, and she threaded her fingers through his, needing to touch him. Something told her he needed this even more than she. He lifted her hand to his mouth for just a second and pressed it against his lips, his head bowed, his eyes closed.
She didn’t say anything. She just waited.
He took a deep breath and set their hands back on the table. Then he looked at her without any emotion in his eyes. “Promise me, Smitty, that you won’t bring the children here. Promise me.”
She took a deep breath and nodded. “I’ve sent telegrams. So has Dad. So has everyone we know. We’re just waiting. It can’t be much longer.”
He shook his head. “Don’t.”
