Split Black /#Wattys 2021

Chapter Thirty-five

It would make for a long day and a long night, but John could still drive to Hampton, visit with someone in jail, drive back, and still get to work the next morning. He felt like he owed it to his mother. He hadn't stayed behind and taken care of it when they searched 842 First Street because it was a work trip and everybody came down in one squad car, plus he hadn't at that point known what he wanted to do.

But calling her up, or calling her attorney up, to say over the phone that he wasn't parlaying with Hampton PD again, and he wasn't posting bail, was just too cold. It felt like the coward's way out.

The closer he got to Hampton and the city jail, the worse he felt. How could he refuse to help his own mother? What would she think? What would other people think?

It would look like he hated her. And the very worst thing was driving all those miles remembering all the times he really had.

He hated her for putting him in this situation now. How hard was it to get in trouble with the police, hear, "Don't send any more letters," and then just, not send any more letters? How could she be so stupid? He hated her for this whole thing.

And for that, he felt very, very guilty.

Guilt grew and grew, bloated and prickly, like he'd swallowed a puffer fish whole, until he walked into the visiting area at Hampton City Jail with his stomach feeling the size of a watermelon.

He could put Ma's bail on his credit card. He really could. She wasn't going anywhere—she didn't feel comfortable driving anywhere except the paper, the gym, and the grocery store. He wouldn't lose his money. He could speak to the gray-haired, paunchy lieutenant again. If he talked fast, he thought, sitting in the cubicle seat the jail guard indicated, he was sure he could work something out. Ma wasn't a criminal. She didn't need to be in here.

A tingling pressure in his chest threatened to pull his ribs apart. How many times had he had to lie to her, about a million little things over the years, just to keep the peace?

His palm left a sweaty print on the counter in front of him as he waited. He looked through bars to the other side of the counter. There, a long, narrow chamber painted in institutional green stretched the length of the room. Orange-clad prisoners sat in cubicles, talking through the bars to attorneys in suits and ties, or average Joes in jeans. Soft murmurs buzzed around him.

A door opened on the other side of the bars, almost blocked from sight. A female African-American guard stepped through and John saw a flash of orange and bright blonde hair; and then his mother was settling into her seat in front of him and reaching out and grabbing the bars. For a moment, John felt shielded by them.

His mother's face radiated relief and joy; high color painted her cheeks. She smiled a wide smile that looked a little goony on the edges.

"Johnny!" she said. "Thank God you're here! Oh, this is horrible! It's like a nightmare. It's like it isn't even real! I just can't believe this. I'm in jail. I didn't even do anything. I sent a guy a check and said, 'I'm sorry, let me treat you to dinner.'"

The words tumbled out of her like marbles out of a bag. "I just knew I could count on you to be here. I told the other woman in my cell, 'My son will be here.' She doesn't even know where hers is. Did you post the bail yet? Get me out of this place and let's go home!"

John opened his mouth. Not a sound came out. The words teetered on a knife-blade edge. I still have to go pay. I'll be back for you in half an hour.

"Johnny?"

He closed his mouth again.

"Johnny, what's wrong? My lawyer said I could get out on bail."