No You Didn't

Ten: The Visit

 The visitor's waiting room at Butner Federal Prison felt like just that...a prison. I always felt like I'd committed some crime when I sat in those off-white folding chairs, drinking water from a conical paper cup, slowly slipping into insanity beneath the white halogen lights.

Dad made an appointment to visit Clay every month. And every month, we had to wait an unholy amount of time to see Clay, as if the people in charge hadn't been expecting us.

Today, the waiting room was particularly stifling.

There was never anyone in there with us. Apparently, the convicts in a federal prison rarely had consistent visitors, which probably had something to do with the fact that most of the people in there were actual criminals.

Dad paced across the windowless room, smoking a cigarette, which Mama hated and told him so (repeatedly).

Eddie and I sat two chairs away from each other, staring ahead, lost in our own worlds. From the corner of my eye, I kept seeing him fidget. It was the same nervous tic he'd always had–rubbing the bottom corner of his shirt between his thumb and pointer finger until there was nothing left but a tuft of thread.

I couldn't blame him for not wanting to be here. Who would? But if he thought he could come back to Ida Creek and not "get involved", he must have thought he was coming to a different place.

The glass door in the corner swung open and a redheaded officer stepped through. He had a mustache that curled at the ends and was about two times too big for his small head.

"Inmate 35600 in en route," the officer announced, looking ahead, never in our eyes.

With that, he turned on his heel and left.

Eddie stared after him, eyes wide. The rest of us had grown used to the sterile treatment. I'd never heard an officer say Clay's name, it was always Inmate 35600.

In an attempt to lighten the mood, I leaned over to Eddie and said, "That's Officer Dunlap. If I could rip that mustache off his face, I'd slap him with it."

"Why do I feel like I'm the one in trouble here?" Eddie asked.

"They have a special way of doing that to people," I said with a shrug.

Eddie limply gestured to the door. "That officer just treated Clay like he was nothing."

"Well, don't be too hard on him. He's got enough problems, you know, being a redhead and all."

I was surprised when Eddie chuckled. It wasn't a real laugh, more like a tired exhale, but it was better than the glares I'd been getting all day.

When an officer said that an inmate was "en route", that meant fifteen minutes until our sentence was up.

Anticipation grew in my chest, torn between excitement and fear.

As if reading my thoughts, Eddie asked, "You going to tell Clay?"

I gave him a sideways glance. Though I was of the opinion that this wasn't any of his business, I said, "Yes. He might have information that'd be helpful."

"I would advise against that."

I rolled my eyes. "And to think you were almost tolerable for a second there."

"You wanna get his hopes up? Fine." Eddie lifted his hands. "But we don't have anything to promise him. Just something to dangle in front of his face, just out of reach. I don't know how this story is going to hit, Viv. It might plummet."

I crossed my arms and chewed on the side of my cheek. He was right, though I'd never say it out loud.

The truth was that none of us had ever talked about that day. Not really. We all knew it happened, we all knew what happened, so why bring it up to Clay, who probably spent every waking hour replaying those nightmares?