Free Shelter in Place by Alexander Maksik Page B

forward and laid her arms across the table. This is all that remains of our first visit. Us three, our hands joined.
    Maybe we spoke, but I don’t think so. They took her away. There’s the sound of the door buzzing open and the sound of it closing.
    Then my father and I were in the truck climbing out of the valley, moving across the ridge, while below in the darkening evening, the prison glowed, yes, just like a spaceship.

32.
    M y dad took me to Lester’s, a pizza place up the hill and well removed from the fading charm of the waterfront. Sawdust on the floors. Wooden booths. A jukebox. Two coin-operated pool tables. A long bar facing the front door, the requisite Bud mirrors and neon Pabst signs. It was one of those good places. Worn without being dirty. Something about the proportions, the lighting, the height of the stools. It’s that golden combination. Certain bars have it, others don’t. All the wood helped. That’s one thing, so little plastic in that place.
    We came in happy to be there and we took a booth we’d later claim as our own. The two of us turned a little sideways, watching the room, a pitcher of Olympia between us, the pizza in its metal pan landing on the table. Pepperoni, mushroom, onion, always. The two of us eating with such pleasure. The slice-shaped spatula. The indestructible white ceramic plates. Chili flake shaker.
    â€œGood place,” he said, so pleased to have me there, to show me this element of his new life.
    â€œYou come here a lot?”
    He nodded.
    â€œYou know anybody?”
    He shrugged. “Few familiar faces. Some of the waitresses. Bartenders. But no, not really.”
    â€œTakes a while, I guess.”
    He leaned back from the table.
    â€œI don’t like them much.”
    I looked over at him. “Why not?”
    â€œThis place? It’s the prison here. Most of these people are guards.”
    He nodded at a table across from ours. A few burly guys. Some sturdy women.
    â€œSo what?”
    He leaned toward me. “These fuckers have your mother in there, Joe. These are the people opening and closing her cell. They’re the ones with the keys, the ones dragging her away every time I go to visit.”
    â€œSo what are you doing here all the time? What are we doing here now?”
    â€œYou saw the papers, Joe. What they wrote about her.”
    â€œNo,” I said. “I didn’t.”
    He looked at me for a long second. “No?”
    I shook my head.
    â€œThere wasn’t a lot of sympathy. Let’s put it that way. Not a lot of sympathy.”
    â€œSo what, you think there
should
have been?” I couldn’t contain it. My adolescent tone. My generic contempt for him, for the bar, for the town.
    â€œHey, hey. Look at me. I’ve been there every minute from the beginning. I went to that jail. I slept on a bench. I went to the courthouse. Every single day. I sold all we owned to be here. I’ve given up everything to do this, while you and Claire did nothing. So don’t give me that bullshit. Don’t bore me with your bullshit. Every day I’ve been there. Meanwhile you and your sister? Who the hell knows where you were.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said after a long time.
    â€œLook at me,” he said.
    I did.
    â€œI don’t need you to be sorry. Just be an adult, okay?”
    I nodded.
    â€œThey know who I am, Joey. You understand? I see the same guards here as I see there. And pretty soon they’ll know who you are, too.”
    â€œSo why come here then?”
    He turned away from me.
    â€œI want them to know. I want them to
know
, Joey. You understand?”
    â€œNo.”
    He sighed. I’d never seen such impatience and frustration in my father. I hated it as much as I hated my own insolence, that piercing sense of irritation.
    â€œLook,” he said, “These are the people who have your mother. They’ve got her in there, Joey. What do we