Thursday afternoon carries on and, like all other Thursdays and Mondays, I have a visitor. It seems as if today people just can’t get enough of me. From Monday the country won’t be able to get enough of me. They’re all going to be glued to their TV sets watching the news.
The same two asshole guards lead me down to the visitors’ area. It’s a much bigger room than the rooms my last two visitors spoke to me in. It’s the size of a large conference room that can accommodate perhaps a dozen prison members at a time, along with those coming to see them, and along with some guards. Today the room is mostly empty. A couple of prisoners talking with their wives. With their kids. There are hugs and tears and there are guards watching everything with eagle eyes. There’s a baby in a pram that keeps staring at me, and for a moment I wonder what life would be like having children. If I had a son I could teach him to fish, to throw a ball, to use a hooker and not pay. Then I think about nappy changes and sleepless nights, and I allow myself a few seconds to think about that life, then I turn toward the person who has come here to see me.
My mother.
She is sitting in the corner with a handbag clutched in her lap and an old man by her side. She doesn’t look like she has aged. If anything, she seems to look younger. She is certainly dressing better. And she looks happier. I hope that’s because of Walt, and not because her only and favorite son is in jail.
She starts smiling the moment I sit down opposite her. It’s unusual. If my mom can smile it means I can win the lottery.
“Hello, Joe,” she says, and she leans forward as though to hug me, and manages to restrain herself by simply touching my arm. “You look well,” she says, and there must be something wrong with her if she can smile and give me a compliment at the same time. I’m going with brain tumor. Or she’s had a stroke. I don’t ask her how she is.
“Hello, son,” Walt says, even though I’m not his son—it’s just an old-person thing to do, like forgetting to put their dentures back in or drying the poodle in the microwave. I don’t answer him and he looks away, finding something interesting in the texture of the brick wall over my shoulder, perhaps thinking the same thing I was earlier about them being timeless.
“Mom,” I say, “I’ve missed you,” which isn’t exactly true.
“I wanted to bring you some meat loaf,” she says, “but I wasn’t allowed.”
“I think it is allowed,” I say.
Walt says nothing. In fact nobody does for about ten seconds. Until my mom carries on, her beaming smile beginning to really annoy me now because it’s making me want to smile too.
“We’ve got great news,” she says, and her use of the word we’ve suggests the news isn’t going to be about me, or about me getting out of here, but about her and Walt, and unless that great news has something to do with her kicking him in the balls and setting him on fire it isn’t something I want to hear.
“I hate it in here,” I say. “I didn’t do any of the things they say I did, or at least I don’t remember doing them. I’m sick. I don’t even know how they could think—”
“We’re getting married!” she says.
“Plus there are some people here that want to kill me. They have to keep me in a separate—”
“Can you believe that? Married! Could life be any better?” she asks.
“It could be, if there weren’t people in here who want me dead.”
“We’re in love,” she says, “and we see no reason to wait. We’re going to marry next week. It’s all so sudden, but exciting! We want you to be there.”
“I was hoping you could be my best man,” Walt says.
“Oh, what a wonderful idea,” Mom says, and squeezes Walt’s arm while giving him a look she has never given me—a look that I imagine can only be described as loving.
Walt looks happy to have gotten the squeeze. That better be all he’s getting.
“You’re getting married,” I say, finally letting her words settle. “Married.”
“Yes, married, Joe. On Monday. I’m over the moon!” Mom says.
“I might not be able to make it.” I say.
“Because of the jail thing?” Mom asks. “I’m sure they can arrange for you to be released for the wedding. I’ll talk to somebody about it.”
“It won’t happen,” I say. “There is no chance at all. My trial starts the same day.”
“Then it’s perfect,” she says. “You’ll already be out of jail. We only need you for an hour.”
“I don’t think the police are going to agree to that.”
“Don’t be so negative,” she says.
“Why don’t you wait until I’m released?”
“Why do you have to always be difficult?”
“I’m not trying to be difficult,” I tell her.
“You are trying, and well done, Joe, because you’re succeeding. Already you’re ruining our day!”
“Perhaps leave the boy alone, dear,” Walt says. “He’ll come around in his own time. It can’t be easy on him getting a new father.”
Mom seems to think about what Walt says, which is a new trick because I don’t think she’s ever thought about anything I ever said. “No, I guess it can’t be,” she says, still giving me a sour look.
“I’m not trying to be difficult,” I say again. “It’s just that, well, the people on TV seem to think I’m guilty, but you can never trust those guys,” I say, and I know the news is all about sales, all about selling fear, and isn’t an accurate representation of how the country is feeling. “What about the newspapers? What do they say?”
“I don’t know,” Mom answers.
“You don’t know?”
“We haven’t been reading them,” Walt says.
“We just haven’t been keeping up on the news,” Mom offers. “We don’t watch it and we don’t read it.”
“But I am the news. Surely you’d keep up on me.”
“The news is depressing,” Mom says.
“And depressing,” Walt adds.
“We haven’t been following the news at all. Why would we?” Mom says.
“Because I’m in the news,” I say.
“Well, how am I supposed to know that?” Mom asks, sounding short.
“You’d know if you cared enough to turn on a TV and watch anything other than one of those damn English dramas.”
“God, we have to tell you,” Walt says, and he leans forward. “Last night, you wouldn’t believe who turned out to be Karen’s real father.”
“It was exciting,” Mom says.
I listen to them tell me about the program, and I store the information and I think about Pickle and Jehovah, my goldfish from another life, and how I’d tell them about the same program, and I wonder if they used to think the same thing I’m thinking now. I hope not. I miss them. My little pets with their five-second memories—they wouldn’t even remember dying.
“Can you believe we’re really getting married?” Mom asks, when a guard comes over and tells us our time is nearly up.
“I can’t believe it,” I tell them, and I don’t want to believe it either.
“You don’t have to call me Dad,” Walt says, “at least not yet.”
“He’ll come around,” Mom says.
“Of course he will,” Walt says. “He is your son.”
Mom stands up. She’s carrying a plastic bag full of something. Walt follows her move. She moves toward me and gives me a hug. It’s a tight bear hug in which I can smell old-lady perfume and old-lady soap and old lady.
“He’s so much better than your father,” she whispers. “And I’m glad you’re not gay, Joe. The things the police told us that you did—no gay man would do that.”
“He’s definitely not gay,” Walt says, because my mom’s whispering is loud enough for him to hear. My mom has no idea how to whisper.
“And nor are you,” my mom says, pulling back and looking at Walt. She giggles a little bit. “But after what we tried last night, you wouldn’t know.”