Lifers

  I turned on the radio as he drove, and watched him drumming his fingers to the music, lost in thought.

  When we arrived back, I hopped out of the truck and threw him the plastic bag that I’d hidden in my purse.

  “For you.”

  His surprise turned to astonishment as he pulled out a pair of long-cuffed work-gloves, size large.

  “You … you bought these for me?”

  “Sure! I said I would. Don’t worry, I’ll get the money back off of Mom.”

  I waved and headed for the front door.

  “Torrey!” he called after me.

  I turned to look at him.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Jordan

  I couldn’t believe she’d bought me a gift. Even if her momma was paying for it. I hadn’t had anyone do something like that for me in so long.

  I took the gloves out of their packaging and pulled them on. They fit perfectly.

  I went back to work and took out some of my frustration on the Rev’s overgrown rambling roses. I only got a few scratches on my upper arms. I hoped there’d be a garden emerging from the wilderness once I was done. I didn’t want to think what would happen to me when I’d finished—I couldn’t keep working here if there was nothing for me to do. I hoped that the Reverend was praying for a plan B.

  I kept an eye open, but I didn’t see Torrey again. I’d hoped to be able to thank her once more for the gloves, and for, well, everything.

  When I got home, my parole officer’s car was parked in the driveway.

  More joy.

  My parents hated having the house searched, but it was part of the agreement they’d signed as a condition of my parole, so they couldn’t object. But they could resent me just a little bit more.

  At least Officer Carson wasn’t a complete bitch. I mean, she was one of them, so I didn’t really trust her, but she didn’t go out of her way to make things difficult either.

  I saw Momma standing in the kitchen with her arms folded, fuming as Officer Carson went through the cupboards. They both turned and saw me at the same time.

  “Hello, Jordan,” said Officer Carson, pleasantly. “It’s good to see you. How are you?”

  “Fine thank you, ma’am,” I mumbled. It was my default answer for most questions.

  I saw her glance at Momma who still hadn’t spoken.

  “How’s work going?” the officer continued.

  “Fine.”

  “Reverend Williams says she’s very pleased with you.”

  I nodded and shoved my hands into my pockets.

  She smiled congenially. “Well, I’m about done here. Thank you, Mrs. Kane. Jordan, I just need to take a look in your room now, if that’s okay?”

  She didn’t have to ask permission, so it was kind of nice of her that she did.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  I followed her up the stairs and along the hallway, then watched from the door as she checked under the bed, in my closet, under the mattress, and rifled carefully through my chest of drawers. She even checked under the drawers and behind the back of the unit. It was a reasonably thorough search, but if I’d wanted to hide drugs or shit, I wouldn’t have been so fucking obvious. I’d probably leave them outside or in the attic, hidden behind the rafters, like Mikey and I used to do.

  “How are you finding it, being home?”

  “Fine.”

  She sighed. “You know, Jordan, part of my job is to help you with the transition. I know it’s difficult, but if you talk about it, and with the support of your family, you’ll have a much better chance of staying out of prison.”

  Yeah, right—the support of my family.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She waited a moment but got nothing more from me.

  “Do you have your monthly report for me?”

  “Uh, yeah. I’ll just get it.”

  I handed her the sheet of paper, covered in my usual chicken scratch writing. Along with all the other parole requirements, I had to write a ‘complete and truthful’ account of my month.

  I passed the scrawl to her and she cast a brief eye over it.

  “Thank you, Jordan. Well, this will be the last home visit I make. There’ll still be the random searches, of course, but other than those, we’ll continue to meet in my office. You have my card—you can call me any time if you have a problem.”

  I nodded.

  “Okay, I’m done. I’ll see you in two weeks. Don’t forget to get your testing done at the police station.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I walked her to the door, and she gave me a professional smile before leaving.

  Momma was thumping pots and pans around in the kitchen when I shut the door behind Officer Carson. I knew she hated these inspections as much as I did; the difference being, she wasn’t used to them. I headed out to the garage and threw some weights around. It helped. A bit.

  I ate supper alone in the kitchen, washed my plate, and lay upstairs, praying for sleep to numb my mind.

  I woke up suddenly. It wasn’t a dream that had disturbed me. I was fairly sure I’d heard something.

  I listened carefully and then I heard it: a car engine turning over. The twin beams of headlights split the dark. Whatever was going on, I was guessing it wasn’t anything good.

  I shot out of bed and ran to the front door. I was just in time to see red tail lights disappearing down our road and toward the town.

  I flicked on the porch light and saw immediately what my night time visitors had done. My truck was covered in red paint, and someone had slashed each of the tires.

  I swore loudly, and then I heard my dad’s voice behind me.

  “That’s your brother’s truck.”

  “I know, Dad. I didn’t ask for this to happen.”

  “I should have known that lettin’ you use it would end up like this. Everythin’ you touch…”

  I wanted to tear my hair out with frustration. Dad had been reluctant to let me use Mikey’s truck, and Momma had flat out refused to even discuss it. But when Dad pointed out that she’d end up having to run me everywhere, I think that forced her to agree. Mostly, because she couldn’t stand the thought of spending all that alone time with me.

  Whatever.

  It took a solid week of hard work getting the truck to run again. And now this.

  I couldn’t believe it had happened. Why did they have to violate Mikey’s truck? I mean, what the fuck? How was I going to get to work now? How was I going to do anything?

  My hands were shaking from the adrenalin burning through my body, and I wanted to hit something … badly.

  “No, you didn’t mean for any of this to happen. You just went off and got drunk and Michael died because of you.”

  Dad’s voice was so tired, barely even angry. It sounded more like something he’d said in his head a thousand times. He turned on his heel, shutting the door in my face.

  Some things didn’t change.

  Torrey

  In deference to the morality police—a.k.a. Mom—I’d set my alarm half an hour earlier than usual so I could shower and dress before Jordan arrived for work.

  She’d pretty much accused me of ‘leading him on’ by making coffee while wearing the clothes that I slept in. I’d only changed my routine because I was a little bit worried he might think the same thing.

  I’d seen the way he looked at me, and he’d told me that he thought I was attractive … well, ‘gorgeous’ was what he’d said. I took that comment with a grain of salt—I mean the guy was practically a virgin. Okay, probably not an actual virgin given what Mom had mentioned about him getting into trouble with girls, but unless he was taking it up the ass in prison, which I somehow doubted, then he hadn’t had sex in eight years. A born-again virgin, maybe. Either way, I didn’t want to make it harder for him. And I’d definitely seen how hard I was making it. Not that I was intentionally looking, it was just very, um … obvious and for it to be so obvious he must have had quite the … yeah, better not think abo
ut that.

  But losing half an hour’s sleep made me grumpy. I was not a morning person.

  I staggered down to the kitchen, desperate for a shot of caffeine before I moved an inch further.

  I was listening out for the sound of Jordan’s truck when I suddenly saw him from the kitchen window. He was wearing his too-big shorts, and it looked like he was limping.

  I banged on the window, and he jumped. Shit, I must stop doing that to the poor guy.

  But when he turned around, I was shocked. I yanked open the screen door and marched toward him.

  “Jeez! What the hell happened to you now?”

  Jordan was a mess. Blood was dripping down his leg from a cut across his left knee; his right elbow didn’t look much better, and the palms of both hands were badly scraped.

  “Fell,” he said, with zero inflection in his voice.

  “What? You fell in a way that managed to scrape your left knee, your right arm, both hands, and rip across the back of your t-shirt?”

  He nodded and shrugged one shoulder.

  “You’re full of shit, Jordan! Get your ass over here.”

  He seemed reluctant to come in the house, so I grabbed a fistful of his sweaty t-shirt and dragged him inside, pushing him onto the couch.

  “Sit there. Don’t move.”

  He let his backpack slip off his shoulder and leaned back, his eyes closed.

  I ran upstairs to get Mom’s first aid kit and a bottle of peroxide for the second time in as many days. Then, as an afterthought, I went to the kitchen and boiled some water, put it in a bowl and carried it over to the couch with a clean towel and more Bactine. It seemed likely that we were going to have to stock up on that if Jordan was going to carry on working here. Maybe kissing the boo-boos better would help, too—or kissing other things. Aaagh! Mind on the job, Delaney!

  “Soak your hands in there,” I ordered.

  He hissed as his raw hands sank into the hot water.

  “Wimp,” I teased him.

  He raised his eyebrows, and I thought I saw a slight smile twitch at his lips.

  When he’d washed his hands thoroughly, I dried them with the towel then smeared the palms with more ointment. He needed two small Band-Aids on the worst scrapes, but otherwise his hands weren’t too bad. After yesterday’s tussle with the rose bushes, his arms were already a patchwork of scratches and Band-Aids. He looked like he’d been wrestling a pair of bobcats. Did people still do that? Well, we were in Texas.

  “Just keep your hands clean and dry. They’ll be fine. And remember to wear your work-gloves all the time. Now, let me see your elbow.”

  I repeated the process of soaking and cleaning, and then used tweezers to pull out a couple of pieces of grit from his elbow. The cut was pretty deep but not too big. I cleaned it with the peroxide and felt his body tense as I dabbed the clear liquid into the cut, but he didn’t speak.

  If I had to think of a word that defined Jordan, it would be ‘stoic’. He took pain the way other people took coffee. Definitely stoic, along with ‘hot’.

  Still, this probably wasn’t worse than having a tattoo. I couldn’t help wondering when and where he’d got them all done. When he was 16? Possible—just.

  His left knee had taken the worst of whatever had happened to him. And I didn’t believe his bullshit story that he’d simply fallen over. If I had to take a guess—which seemed likely since he wasn’t telling me anything anyway—I’d say that he’d been running when he fell, then rolled. Running from something, maybe?

  It wasn’t my business, but I was still curious.

  I settled down between his feet and took a good look at his knee. Several pieces of grit were stuck in there and I could see that I was going to need a magnifying glass as well as the tweezers.

  “Wait here. Don’t move,” I snapped at him.

  I thought I saw a flash of irritation, but his blank look was soon in place again. I was kind of pleased that I was getting under his skin. I wanted to know what the real Jordan was like. He was a master at keeping himself closed off. It couldn’t be good for him—it wouldn’t be good for anyone to keep themselves wound so tight. I imagined he’d had eight years of it. I shivered at the thought of what unraveling eight years of fear and tension might look like.

  I found a scratched magnifying glass at the bottom of Mom’s ancient makeup bag. Satisfied I had the tools for the job, I ran back downstairs and was pleased to find that he hadn’t moved.

  “How y’all doin’ over there, cowboy?” I said, in my best Texas drawl.

  “Waal, jest fine, ma’am,” he said, hamming it up for me.

  This time there was a definite smile lurking at the corners of his mouth, and it gave me hope.

  I knelt down between his feet again and started pulling out pieces of grit.

  I saw a muscle quiver in his thigh a couple of times, but he didn’t say anything.

  When I heard Mom’s car outside, I felt Jordan tense up again, but I was so focused on what I was doing that I just carried on.

  Mom walked in the door and I heard her shocked intake of breath.

  “Oh excuse me!” she gasped, and immediately started to back out.

  What the hell?

  I turned to see her retreating figure.

  “Mom! What are you doing?”

  She turned around to meet my irritated gaze. Her face was burning with embarrassment.

  “What?” I said again.

  She took in the sight of Jordan’s messy knee and the first aid kit, then heaved a sigh of relief.

  “Oh, I’m sorry! I thought…”

  I realized what she’d seen: me kneeling with my head nearly in Jordan’s lap. She’d obviously sprinted to the wrong conclusion.

  “Jeez, Mom, really? Did you think I was blowing him right here on your sofa?”

  Her face went an even darker shade of red, and behind me Jordan sounded like he was choking.

  Mom uttered a few mangled vowels then almost ran to the kitchen, mumbling about making coffee.

  “I should go,” Jordan said in a hoarse whisper, standing up awkwardly.

  “Sit your ass down and let me finish!”

  Hesitantly, he lowered himself to the couch again. I shook my head in disbelief at the weirdness of people and went back to work.

  Five minutes later, I was happy that I’d gotten all of the grit. I finished cleaning him up then slapped a large Band-Aid over his knee.

  “You’re done.”

  He stood up hurriedly, his eyes fixed to the floor, as usual.

  “Thanks,” he said, softly.

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m a regular Saint Joan.”

  “A warrior.”

  “What?”

  This time he risked meeting my eyes.

  “Saint Joan was a warrior. She led the French in battles against the English.”

  “Who died and put you in charge?” I said bitchily, still more than a little irritated with my mom.

  His face froze.

  “Oh, God! I’m so sorry, Jordan! That was…”

  But he was already out the door.

  Jeez, was there ever a time when I didn’t have my foot in my mouth?

  Mom watched him through the kitchen window.

  “Torrey…”

  “Don’t start, Mom.”

  “I shouldn’t have assumed … but what you said—that language was uncalled for.”

  I whipped my head around to look at her.

  “Seriously? You’re that much of a hypocrite that what bothers you is not the fact that you leapt to a hugely wrong conclusion about both me and Jordan? But that’s not what bothers you—oh no! The fact that I called you on it is a big fucking problem!”

  “Please don’t swear! You know I don’t like it.”

  “Fine! I won’t swear if you won’t assume that I’m a giant slut!”

  I walked out of the room, fire just about shooting from my eyeballs. By rights the house should have been alight by now.

  I ran up to my room and
upended my purse to try and find my car keys, causing unpaid parking tickets, lipstick and loose change to rain down on my bed.

  Then I sat down heavily, bouncing slightly on the too soft mattress—I couldn’t take off in a cloud of smoke and squeal of burning tires because my car was still fucked.

  I looked out of the window, my eyes searching for Jordan. He was standing with his shoulders slumped, staring at the thicket of brambles and roses in front of him.

  The way he was just standing there was painful to watch. He looked so defeated. I hated that I’d contributed to him feeling like that. Just because Mom had assumed I was being my usual sluttish self. Okay, so I’d hooked up with quite a number of guys in the couple of weeks I’d been here, but did she really think I’d do a guy on her sofa in the middle of the day? Scratch that, because the answer was obviously ‘yes’.

  I couldn’t really blame her—I hadn’t given her many reasons to think well of me. She didn’t know that I still had boundaries; they just weren’t the same as her boundaries.

  I heard the front door slam so I assumed she’d gone back out. She was probably as eager to get away from me as I was from her. I sighed heavily. I might not be able to fix my relationship with my mom, but I could try to make things better for Jordan.

  I went back downstairs and opened the screen door leading from the kitchen.

  “Hey, cowboy!”

  He turned around; his face stiff with the studied blankness that seemed to be what he did to hide himself. I guess it was a necessary skill in prison.

  “You going to fix my car for me or what?”

  He blinked and stared at me warily.

  “You still want me to try?”

  “Well, duh! Of course I do!”

  He nodded and limped toward me.

  “Are you going to tell me what the hell happened now, or do I have to play twenty questions again?”

  His eyes wouldn’t meet mine when he replied.

  “I fell over,” he said, again.

  “Fine. So don’t tell me. You fell over. Whatever.”

  I tossed my keys to him. “Fix my car and I’ll fix you something amazing for lunch. How about feta and quinoa spring rolls with roast tomato nam prik?”