more of it being bitter.
Will, who’d accompanied Mom to the courthouse, stood quietly in the corner of the holding cell that day, eyeing me warily throughout the whole exchange with our mom. I couldn’t believe how tall he’d gotten. But he is almost fifteen now. He’s a good-looking kid, favors Mom a lot. His hair is dark blond, same shade as hers. His eyes are also the same vivid green. A color that never fails to remind me of freshly unfurled spring leaves.
“Give your brother a hug, Will,” my mom said when she was finally done hugging me.
“Do I have to?” he asked, hurt and betrayal evident behind the hard stare he leveled my way.
“Of course not, buddy,” I cut in, not wanting to push.
The look of venom I received in return cut to the quick. “I am not your buddy,” Will hissed, “not anymore. Not ever again.”
Fuck, his words hurt like hell, still do. But he has every reason to hate me. I let my baby brother down. I disappointed a kid who once looked up to me like I was some kind of a hero. I am no hero, that’s for sure. It seems the only thing I excel in is disappointing the ones I love. Yet another reason why I knew that day that Vegas was most definitely out.
I wasn’t sure where I was going to go once I was released. I feared freedom would yoke me in the same way as prison. But then I got word that when my grandmother had died she left me the farmhouse out on Cold Springs Lane, all the property too, and even a little bit of money. Grandma Gartner accomplished in death what she had strived to do in life—she saved my ass. And that in and of itself would have been enough, but she’d also miraculously managed to convince Father Maridale—probably as a dying wish—to have mercy on me.
Father Maridale came to see me the day I was released, once everything was official and I was truly free. He urged me to come home to Harmony Creek and move back into the farmhouse. It didn’t take too much convincing, I’d just found out the house now belonged to me.
I guess I could have sold it and moved anywhere. I may have chosen that path in the past. But when I considered it, for a few brief seconds, it just didn’t feel right. I hadn’t seen the farmhouse in almost four years, but all I could do was sit and wonder if the frame exterior was still the same antique white color I’d painted it one September. Would the shutters still be blue, blue as a country twilight sky? I needed to know, it seemed more than important. Everything in my soul told me it was time to go back.
I did have a home, and it was time to go to it.
Father Maridale must have seen in my eyes that I was going home to Harmony Creek. He immediately offered me a job with the church, painting, fixing things, taking care of some carpentry work. “Can you do that kind of stuff?” he asked.
I nodded.
“The school needs a lot of work too,” he continued. “And summer will be here soon. The school is right next to the church, maybe you remember?” I didn’t have time to answer; he kept right on going, seemingly thrilled to have someone get started as soon as possible. “Another month and the kids will be on break. You can start over there then. A lot of the rooms need painting, and there’s stuff in the gymnasium that needs repairing, too. But until June gets here there’s plenty to keep you busy at the church and in the rectory.”
My grandmother must have told Father Maridale about my sketches, because he asked to see my work. I was afraid to show him at first, knowing that what my sketchbook contained was a reflection of my life in prison, and the terrible things I’d seen. Needless to say, none of the drawings were virtuous…or particularly clean.
I sketched things like charcoal renderings of bloodied men, beaten inmates, examples of how power is exerted in prison. There’s one particularly detailed drawing in my sketchbook of a broken man lying on the floor of his cell, his bones are jutting through his skin. He’s
Will, who’d accompanied Mom to the courthouse, stood quietly in the corner of the holding cell that day, eyeing me warily throughout the whole exchange with our mom. I couldn’t believe how tall he’d gotten. But he is almost fifteen now. He’s a good-looking kid, favors Mom a lot. His hair is dark blond, same shade as hers. His eyes are also the same vivid green. A color that never fails to remind me of freshly unfurled spring leaves.
“Give your brother a hug, Will,” my mom said when she was finally done hugging me.
“Do I have to?” he asked, hurt and betrayal evident behind the hard stare he leveled my way.
“Of course not, buddy,” I cut in, not wanting to push.
The look of venom I received in return cut to the quick. “I am not your buddy,” Will hissed, “not anymore. Not ever again.”
Fuck, his words hurt like hell, still do. But he has every reason to hate me. I let my baby brother down. I disappointed a kid who once looked up to me like I was some kind of a hero. I am no hero, that’s for sure. It seems the only thing I excel in is disappointing the ones I love. Yet another reason why I knew that day that Vegas was most definitely out.
I wasn’t sure where I was going to go once I was released. I feared freedom would yoke me in the same way as prison. But then I got word that when my grandmother had died she left me the farmhouse out on Cold Springs Lane, all the property too, and even a little bit of money. Grandma Gartner accomplished in death what she had strived to do in life—she saved my ass. And that in and of itself would have been enough, but she’d also miraculously managed to convince Father Maridale—probably as a dying wish—to have mercy on me.
Father Maridale came to see me the day I was released, once everything was official and I was truly free. He urged me to come home to Harmony Creek and move back into the farmhouse. It didn’t take too much convincing, I’d just found out the house now belonged to me.
I guess I could have sold it and moved anywhere. I may have chosen that path in the past. But when I considered it, for a few brief seconds, it just didn’t feel right. I hadn’t seen the farmhouse in almost four years, but all I could do was sit and wonder if the frame exterior was still the same antique white color I’d painted it one September. Would the shutters still be blue, blue as a country twilight sky? I needed to know, it seemed more than important. Everything in my soul told me it was time to go back.
I did have a home, and it was time to go to it.
Father Maridale must have seen in my eyes that I was going home to Harmony Creek. He immediately offered me a job with the church, painting, fixing things, taking care of some carpentry work. “Can you do that kind of stuff?” he asked.
I nodded.
“The school needs a lot of work too,” he continued. “And summer will be here soon. The school is right next to the church, maybe you remember?” I didn’t have time to answer; he kept right on going, seemingly thrilled to have someone get started as soon as possible. “Another month and the kids will be on break. You can start over there then. A lot of the rooms need painting, and there’s stuff in the gymnasium that needs repairing, too. But until June gets here there’s plenty to keep you busy at the church and in the rectory.”
My grandmother must have told Father Maridale about my sketches, because he asked to see my work. I was afraid to show him at first, knowing that what my sketchbook contained was a reflection of my life in prison, and the terrible things I’d seen. Needless to say, none of the drawings were virtuous…or particularly clean.
I sketched things like charcoal renderings of bloodied men, beaten inmates, examples of how power is exerted in prison. There’s one particularly detailed drawing in my sketchbook of a broken man lying on the floor of his cell, his bones are jutting through his skin. He’s
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