Chapter Text
xxx
Faithful 'til death, said our loving Master,
A few more days labor and wait;
Toils of the road will then be as nothing,
As we sweep through the beautiful gates.
Farther along we'll know more about it
Farther along we'll understand why;
Cheer up my brother, live in the sunshine
We'll understand it all by and by.
-W.B. Stevens
xxx
"Inmate 125, report to processing. Everett report to processing."
Lee wrenched his eyes open, wincing as light flooded his vision. As the familiar, yellowish stain on the ceiling came into focus, Lee wondered if he had imagined the crackling voice above his head calling him to freedom. He sat up slowly in his bunk and had a look around. Four walls of concrete. Three other sweaty bodies. Two sets of bunk beds. One toilet.
"Yo, Everett," came a voice from below, "you deaf?"
Lee climbed down and landed on the cold floor. He could feel three pairs of eyes staring at him. So the voice hadn't been in his head. They'd all heard it too.
His bunkie clambered out of his own bed, giving Lee that signature death glare: it wasn't his fault, really. That was just his face. "You really gettin' out," he said in a hushed kind of voice.
Lee let his words sink in, the weight of them making him feel lighter, somehow. I'm getting out.
"How much you had again, Everett?"
"Two." Lee struggled to keep his fingers from shaking as he laced up his boots. "Two years I been in here."
"Shit man, I got four left," grunted Jenkins from the opposite end of the cell.
Death Glare slapped Lee on the shoulder, hard. "Take care, a'ight? The world out there ain't as nice as us."
Lee's right knee throbbed, reminding him of the time when one of the St. John brothers kicked it in because Lee had "looked at him funny" in the food line. He figured he could handle anything outside of the crazy of prison, but Lee appreciated the thought just the same. "Thanks, man."
A few minutes later Lee was following a guard at least twice his size down the flickering corridor, cells on either side, curious eyes following him. He felt like he was moving through a dream, arms loaded with a stack of paperwork and a pile of street clothes. Regular jeans. A generic sweatshirt. Sneakers. It was odd to imagine himself wearing anything but orange or grey.
"Go on through there." The guard nodded his head in the direction of another lit hallway. "Get dressed. Fill out your paperwork."
The guard positioned himself outside the door and didn’t make any move to accompany the prisoner. Lee watched him for a moment. "You want me to go through there alone? I haven’t done so much as taken a shit by myself in two years."
The guard rolled his eyes. "Look, I've got a breakfast sandwich that's getting cold."
Lee stepped tentatively through the doorway. The guard didn't move, didn't give him a second glance. A weird sort of thrill ran through Lee's chest, it felt like the inside of his skin was lined with dusty old light bulbs and they were slowly flickering on. Lee came to another concrete room, this one with at least three windows on the far wall. He could see the morning light pouring in, a pale eggshell color. It was so quiet here: natural light didn't buzz like the florescent ones did. He was alone for a total of three minutes, enough time to change out of his grey sweats and into the too-big street clothes before another C.O. rounded the corner. Lee followed without a word, noting how the place seemed to brighten as he moved forward, even the concrete felt less suppressive.
Lee stopped at the front desk as the C.O. behind it shoved a clipboard under his nose. "You can fill out your release forms on this."
Lee rolled up his sleeves to he could take the pen and scribbled quickly, willing his hands to stop trembling so much. The two guards' eyes were glazed over as they waited for him to finish. When he handed in the stack, the C.O. slid a pad of ink across the counter. "Fingerprints," he ordered.
Lee knew the drill. Thumb in the ink, thumb on the page. Pointer finger in the ink, pointer finger on the page. So on. So forth. It was almost nostalgic; the acidic smell reminiscent of his first day at Meriwether County.
"Looks good," the guard grumbled, slipping an envelope across the counter. "There's your bus fare."
Lee waited for the guard to change his mind, to take the envelope back, to tell him that there must have been some mistake. No, you're not getting out today. Didn't you hear? You've got another year on your sentence, motherfucker. Now get back in your cell or you're getting a shot.
The guard looked at him expectantly until Lee took the envelope.
The inmates were allowed out in the yard once a day. Sometimes they played touch football or cards at the deteriorating picnic tables. There was a track too, but it had been off-limits for the last few months because of flooding—although Lee had the sneaking suspicion it was because of budget cuts. But there was something liberating about stepping on grass outside the chain-link fence. He made his way to the end of the lane settled in the backseat of the white van. No handcuffs.
"Any plans when you get to Macon, free bird?" asked the driver. Lee could see the blues of his eyes flicker in the rearview mirror.
"A hotel, probably." Lee watched the chain-link fence recede and trees rise up on either side of the van as it pulled forward.
"I got a nephew in Macon. They grow 'em good there. He's top of his class in everything, wants to be a social worker or something like it. Can you imagine? Kid must have one hell of a tolerance level, I'm telling you."
Lee shifted in his seat.
"I followed your case, y'know, and I think you got the raw end of the deal what with that mess you got yourself mixed up in. Beatin' on a guy doesn’t usually get you much depending on your situation, but beating on a senator—" he inhaled sharply through his teeth "—suddenly you've got a year and a half extra on your sentence."
Lee remained silent, the pit in his stomach growing ever deeper.
"I've driven a bloke who got busted for beating on his wife, only got two years. The same day a man nicked Mrs-Next-Door-Neighbor's mailbox while backing out of his driveway. Four years. I couldn’t tell you how the system works, no siree." He glanced back at Lee, eyebrows raised. "For the record, I always thought you were innocent. I dunno what I would have done if I been in your position." He adjusted his rearview mirror again, ignoring the static humming from the radio. "Wanna know how I see it?"
Lee wished his driver would keep his eyes on the road. "What?"
The driver lowered the volume on his police radio, quieting the voices asking for dispatch. "Could be you just married the wrong woman."
Lee let out a sigh, forcing himself to keep his focus on the outside of the van and not on the sick feeling in his stomach. Or she married the wrong man.
"Sometimes things are out of your control, son. You gotta roll with the punches, accept the hand you're dealt, and that's that. I've seen my fair share of folks who went mad when they thought their lives was over." He tsked and removed his eyes from the road to look Lee in the eyes again. "You've got a new day ahead of you. Don't waste this one."
They arrived at the bus station an hour later. Lee stepped down from the van with nothing but a wallet in one pocket and his release form shoved inside the other. He was hit with a wave of familiar smells and a symphony of horns honking. The people bustling past didn't give the ex-convict a second glance. On the contrary, it seemed they had mastered the art of avoiding eye-contact, failing to notice the sun pouring onto the pavement or the sweet smell of coffee on the wind.
It didn't just feel like a new day dawning, it felt like waking up after a long, long sleep.