Released

Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Clarence shoved the tray away. His stomach growled, but when he smelled the food, McDonald's threatened to make a reappearance. Damn supper—a cold turkey and cheese sandwich, jello fruit salad, stale potato chips and two cookies. And the ever-present coffee.

He understood the sandwich. No one had known what time he would arrive. According to the digital clock glowing down at him from atop the kitchen pass-through window, it was now 6:18 PM.

Prison food had been better than this.

His legs throbbed, along with his head. His hands shook in his lap. He stretched his fingers against the table surface, but the tremors continued. He was a fit man, having worked out every day, walked every day, more than the younger inmates. But he didn't feel fit now. He felt one footstep away from his funeral.

Randy had driven away less than an hour ago, but it seemed like ages. Randy's last comment: "I'll be back to see you, Clarence. I promise."

Clarence was pretty sure he'd never see Randy again. The trip from Chicago to Osceola was a long one for a man on security guard's pay.

He didn't remember feeling this bad when he was first incarcerated, sixty years ago—longer than most people stayed married. He stared at the dining room floor. Whatsername was right. It was new flooring. It gleamed. One of those new laminated fake floors. Easy to get around on if you used a wheelchair or a walker for your getaway vehicle.

His stomach churned. Worse than butterflies. He belched, and spit gathered in his mouth. He half rose in his chair and frantically scanned the area for a bathroom.

Breathe deep. Think of something else. Distractions. The only thing he could think of right now was how to get out of this place and die. Throwing up was just a side effect of the main event.

His hand flew to his mouth as another threatening belch rumbled up. He sank back down in the chair.

Ahh. Better. It was going away. Just indigestion. That fast food.

Then up it came. McDonald's having its way—all over the table. He belched again, grabbed the extra napkins at the adjoining place setting, shook the utensils free and covered his mouth.

Breathe.

In and out.

He looked at the mess on his tray and almost got sick again. He pushed away and faced the other side of the room.

The table next to him had been long vacated. Dirty plates removed, table scrubbed. The next table over had a lone coffee cup lingering with a crumpled napkin. No chair. Wheelchair driver.

He raised his head.

Table after table, empty.

No wheelchairs.

No walkers.

No staff.

Just him and his tray of ...

A ragged breath bubbled from deep within. A sob stayed just below control. Waiting to roll him over. Waiting to add the capstone to his day.

When he shoved away, his chair legs scraped the floor and bumped the table. Coffee spilled onto the sandwich and seeped under the bottom slice of bread, turning it a dirty shade of brown. That cinched it.

He stood. Blood rushed to his head and he faltered. His hands jerked to the table, bracing for a fall. He found his legs, straightened slowly. Head erect. Breathed deeply.

Okay.

He carefully placed his feet, one at a time, focused with every step.

Whew.

Beside the double doors he paused and read the menu for tomorrow. Tuna casserole. Probably from the same cookbook the prison used. He'd have to make sure he wasn't around for that one.

He looked left and right, down both gray-tiled hallways. Which way? He searched for something familiar—a picture or decoration to jog his memory as to which way back to his room. He should have listened better, or taken a pencil and marked the walls.

Didn't matter. He'd find a place to steal away to—somewhere to get lost—and die. It was either right or left down a doomed hallway. One way or the other. Didn't make any difference.

Funny. A person always knew where he was going in prison.

Here, he had all the choices in the world. He could even s**t in someone else's bathroom. He could do anything he wanted, more or less. But he stood crippled with indecision, trapped beside the kitchen door.

He stared down the left hallway and took a step. Almost every door was propped open. TV's blared, each tuned to the same channel. He never missed a word as he wandered down the hall, his hand grasping the continuous railing. Vanna White. Wheel of Fortune. He heard the wheel spinning from one room. Pat Sajak's voice, "One thousand dollars." Next room—applause. The contestant's voice guessing, "P." Pat Sajak's voice, "Three P's," from the next TV. Ping, ping, ping. On down the hall he guessed letters along with the contestants, until he came to the corner.

This wasn't right. He didn't remember a therapy room. The way back was even longer now. He slumped, hands digging into his pockets.

Now TV's shouted, the commercial blared even louder. Motorcycles roared in multi-stereo. Someone yelled, "Woo-hoo!" Howls. "This is why we do this. Freedom. The open road."

Clarence stopped, fists clenched, arms tensed. He had to get out of here, but not tonight. Tomorrow he'd find a way.

The noise pushed him down the hallway until he saw a head peek out farther down.

What was his name? Henry? Harold. Old buzzard. Nosy old bastard. Stained dress shirt untucked over wrinkled outdated dress pants. Dress socks with a hole in one toe.

"Lost aren'tcha." Harold nodded as Clarence passed his doorway.

Clarence glared straight ahead, ignoring the comment.

Deep chuckle. "I did the same thing when I moved here. You'll find your way and the place will get a smaller feel to it."

Clarence chewed on the inside of his cheek, chin jutted out, nostrils flared.

"Okay. Well, talk when you're ready. I'm not goin' anyplace."

Clarence grunted. Neither was he. He made the turn. Yeah. Past the nurses station. One. Two. Four doors on the left, at the end. Whew.

He stepped into his room and checked the bathroom.

Unoccupied.

He inspected the toilet.

Clean.

He walked to the window and stared into darkness, fist on the glass. He pounded softly. Harder still. The window vibrated with each blow. He calmed as his hands reached to grip bars that weren't there. His forehead dropped against the glass, his mind replayed the day, beginning at prison. His insides lurched, his legs went weak.

He turned away.

The grocery bag still sat on top of the chest of drawers, calling him to unpack, to settle in.

He ignored it and stretched out on the bed fully clothed, comforted by his hand resting on the restraining bar.

His hand tightened around it. He stared at the ceiling.

Someone pushed a rattling cart past his doorway. TV voices mixed into indiscernible chatter. A lady called out for a nurse to help her make water. A door slammed.

He closed his eyes.

Beep, beep, beep. An alarm went off somewhere, making him jump.

He closed his eyes again.

First nights.

This first night swam with memories of a first night long ago. He had been terrified. Crippled by grief. Not letting himself cry, he had choked back sobs. Stared at the ceiling and cold concrete walls then. Water-stained, peeling vinyl wallpaper now. Strange bed then. Strange bed now. Unfamiliar sounds. Taunting voices from the next cells, the next rooms.

He rolled to face the wall, gripping the bars with both hands, squeezing his eyes shut.

Whispered threats from the next cell then.

Voices from his own fears, now.