Bede hadn’t had a day off in years. Not in the five years he’d been in prison, where he always had to be on and ready for anything. And not before that, as the drug trade went on twenty-four-seven.
Hustling to bus his tray, he stood behind Galen and, over his shoulder, quietly said, “Explain what you mean by day off.”
“It’s exactly what it sounds like,” said Galen, not looking at Bede, but turning his head slightly in Bede’s direction, creating an intimate circle of two. “Meals are at the usual time, but you don’t have to be any specific place or do anything. Some people have visitors, which is allowed between the hours of ten and five. You can nap. Swim. Read one of your books. Whatever you like.”
Hands now empty, Galen turned and looked fully at Bede, giving Bede the idea that Galen was considering the fact that men behind bars never experienced a simple and honest day off. Of what it might mean.
“Ask in the counseling session if the idea of a day off continues to be confusing for you,” said Galen, the corner of his mouth twitching as he teased.
Bede’s mouth twitched in response, and for a moment it felt as though they were two young boys in the back pew of a solemn church trying not to laugh. And he’d not laughed in five years behind bars. Not since Winston died.
“I’ll be there,” said Bede.
He could not let himself believe that a new location, a new environment, could make so much difference in how he felt. Calm, reasonably happy. And especially that someone who, by his very existence, should not be Bede’s friend, could make him laugh.
A parole officer was generally thought of as the enemy. You couldn’t laugh with the enemy, could you?
Because of the heat, Bede grabbed a shower before the counseling session, and put on a clean t-shirt before striding back to the mess tent.
His small excitement at the idea of having an hour to just sit around, basically napping in the back row, was squashed by the circle of metal folding chairs that had replaced the long tables.
The rest of the parolees were already seated, and a very young man, looking out of place with his bright cheery smile, waved Bede to come on in, using his clipboard like a baton.
Out of the corner of his eye, Bede saw Galen going into along the path that would wind in front of the team leads’ tents. Galen turned to look at Bede over his shoulder in a way that was probably not meant to be flirty but was. Those gray eyes scanned Bede up and down, then he looked away and disappeared into the woods.
Which meant that Bede had to focus on the counseling session, and pretend he was totally interested when in fact he was not. He took a seat, crossed his arms over his chest, and didn’t bother to contain a low glare aimed at the counselor.
Who was not just young, as many of the counselors at the prison had been, but youthful. Hopeful. Eager to be of use.
All of this was demonstrated by his slightly nervous introduction—Hi, I’m Micah—and the way he began a little speech about how proud he was of the Farthingdale Valley Fresh Start program, and what a great man Leland Tate was.
The way he sat on the edge of his folding chair. The way he asked their names, taking such care to pronounce them right, then marking something on his clipboard, that smile always in place. Bede nearly sprained his eyeballs in an attempt not to roll them every other minute.
He manfully soldiered through the forty-five minutes of group counseling, responding to questions aimed at him, pretending to pay attention to everyone else’s responses. He wasabout to run screaming out of the tent, when Micah handed out a packet of papers to each parolee, along with a brand new pen, and made the offer of a clipboard from the box beside him.
“Your assignment for this week is to fill out this job application and self-evaluation questionnaire. The Fresh Start program isn’t over yet, but it’s never too soon to start looking at what your next steps will be. I’ve written my cell number at the bottom of each application so you can text me with any questions you might have.” With a laugh, Micah added, “In the real world, of course, you’d fill this form out online, but the paper and pen will give you time to think. To make notes to yourself.”
Now Bede did let his eyes roll as he took his packet and his pen and hell, why not, a clipboard as well. At least the meeting was over, as Micah was standing up, telling everyone what a good job they’d done and that he looked forward to reading over their responses when they scanned and emailed them to him.
Micah was an idiot, opening himself up to all kinds of trouble. None of them had phones they could use to text him. But there was the old-fashioned landline in the mess tent, so Bede supposed that some of the parolees might think it funny to call Micah in the middle of the night.
That wasn’t Bede’s problem, though. The information on the application was the problem, and he glared at it as he stomped out of the tent and stood at the bottom of the steps while the parolees passed him in a swirl of energy.
He watched as Jonah thumped down the steps and flew into Beck’s arms, Beck who had been leaning insouciantly against a pine tree, half a smirk sent Bede’s way.
Bede watched them as they walked off and saw when Beck pulled his Sucrets box out of the pocket of his blue jean as he and Jonah walked off. Just two bad boys going to have a smoke in the woods.
Shaking his head, now all alone, Bede realized how hot it was standing there at the bottom of the steps. It had been hot all day, and didn’t look to be letting up any time soon.
Just what were rich folks supposed to do the following summer when their tents got so hot, the air so still and unable to filter out the weird sounds coming from the woods all around? He couldn’t imagine that they would put in air conditioning, as that would ruin the expensive, back to nature vibe.
In the meantime, he had to fill out this dumb form. It would be cooler by the lake, so he went there and plopped himself at a picnic table.
He took off his work boots and socks, and sighed as the coolness of the earth soaked up through the bottoms of his feet. Lifting his head, a bit of a breeze caught up with him, swirling from the almost-flat surface of the lake. A hillside of pine trees rose from the lake all the way up to the gray streak of Guipago Ridge, distinct and sharp against the blue sky.
With a clonk, Bede put the clipboard down on the picnic table and flipped through the job application, glaring at the blank spaces he was supposed to fill out. Which would be easy enough if he’d had an ordinary life, but he hadn’t.
He’d been raised in a neighborhood where everybody knew everybody. When he’d been young and needed some quick cash, he’d just go to the corner bodega and help out for an afternoon. Or he could rent himself as a mule, and carry mysterious rolled-up paper bags sealed with duct tape, dropping them off at the local garage or one of the run-down motels on Colfax.
