On the outside, it was business as usual that Thursday. Only, Max had woken up with a heavy, aching feeling in his chest and a sense of emptiness that opened up into a numb void as the morning went on. He kept on hearing a peculiar rush of air in his ears, as though he was stuck in a wind tunnel, and the vein in his forehead began to wriggle and twitch under his skin. He wanted to tell Henry his wife wasn't coming that week and then let him know why the following week, but he couldn't bring himself to say anything, because he knew the minute he did he'd lose control of his words and most likely crack up.
He didn't have enough to do in the kitchen to keep his mind busy. He had the almost-spotless stove to wipe down. The stove had a clock set in the middle of its controls. He tried to stop himself, but he kept on staring at the clock, watching the black hands move in clicks, stepping up to 2:00.
He replayed the previous week's visit in his mind, every single second of the last time they were together. He recalled every word she'd said to himabout the surprise discount she'd managed to get from one airline, the free nights at a luxury hotel she'd won in a contest, how impressed she was with his knowledge of Australian history. Had she ever said anything about migraines, or headaches, or dizzy spells, blackouts, nosebleeds? He saw her face again through the bulletproof-glass partition they met through; the glass was smeared with the ghostly fingerprints and lipmarks where a million convicts had touched and kissed their loved ones by proxy. They'd never done that. They agreed it was pointless and desperate. It wasn't as if they'd never get to do the real thing again, was it? He wished they had now. It would have been better than the absolute nothing he was left with.
"Max," Henry called over from the sink. "Time to play husband."
It was a few clicks away from 2:00. Max started taking off his apron, right on cue, then stopped.
"She's not coming today," he said, letting the straps of the apron fall to his side. He felt a hot surge of tears geyser up to his eyes and mass around the edges.
"Why not?"
Max didn't answer. Henry came over to him, wiping his hands on a dishcloth. He saw Max's face, about to crack wide open and spill. He looked surprised. He even backed off a step. Like almost everyone else in the joint, he thought Max was a tough motherfuckeran ex-cop in General Population, who'd held his head up and hadn't once flinched from meeting violence with violence on at least five occasions that he knew of.
Henry smiled.
He could have smiled out of mockery, or the sadistic delight in the misfortune of others that passes for happiness in prison, or plain simple confusion. Tough guys didn't cryunless they were pussies all along, or worse, in mid-meltdown.
Max, buried fifty feet deep in grief, read mockery in Henry's face.
The roaring in his ears fell still.
He punched Henry in the throat, a straight, short jab powered in with his full weight, which went straight to the windpipe. Henry's mouth dropped open. He gasped out for air. Max smashed a right hook into his jaw and busted the bone in two. Henry was a big, tall guy, a daily free-weight freak, who could press three-fifty clean without breaking a sweat. He went down with a huge thud.
Max fled the kitchen.
It was a bad move, the worst. Henry was high up in the Brotherhood, and their main source of income. They dealt the best drugs in Attica. Henry's kids smuggled them in for him in the cracks of their asses. The Brotherhood would want blood, a face-saving kill.
Henry was in the infirmary for three days. Max ran the kitchen in his absence, all the while waiting for payback. The Brotherhood weren't random killers. They liked to come in packs of four or five. The guards would know about it in advance. Tipped-off and paid-off, they'd look the other way, as would everyone in the vicinity. Inside, where he hurt most, he prayed they'd stick him clean, straight through a vital organ. He didn't want to wind up a free man in a wheelchair.
But nothing happened.
Henry claimed he'd slipped on some stray grease on the kitchen floor. He was back running the kitchen by Sunday, his jaw tightly wired. He'd heard about Max's loss, and the first thing he did when he saw him again was shake his hand and pat him on the shoulder. This made Max feel worse about hitting him.
Sandra's funeral was held in Miami, a week after her death. Max was allowed to attend.
She was laid out in an open casket. The undertaker had dressed her in a black wig that didn't suit her. Her real hair had never been that straight or that black; she'd had a russet tinge to it in places, brown in others. The makeup was all wrong too. She'd never needed much when she was alive. He kissed her cold, rigid lips and slipped his fingers between her folded hands. He stood there staring down at her forever, feeling her a million miles away. Dead bodies were nothing new to him, but it was very different when it had belonged to the most important person in his life.
He kissed her again. He desperately wanted to flick her eyes open and see them one last time. Besides, she'd never closed her eyes when they kissed, ever. He reached out and then noticed that the overhanging white lilies from the massed display had shed their pollen onto the collar of the dark blue pinstriped business suit she'd been dressed in. He wiped it clean.
At the service, her youngest brother, Calvin, sang "Let's Stay Together," her favorite song. The last time he'd sung it was at their wedding. Calvin had an incredible voice, mournful and piercing like Roy Orbison's. It busted Max up. He cried his fucking heart out. He hadn't cried since he'd been a kid. He cried so much his shirt collar got wet and his eyes swelled up.
On the way back to Attica, Max decided he'd take the trip Sandra had spent the final part of her life organizing. It was partly to honor her wishes, partly to see all the things she never would, partly to live her dream, and mostly because he didn't know what else to do with himself.
* * *
His lawyer, Dave Torres, picked him up outside the prison gates and drove him to the Avalon Rex, a small hotel in Brooklyn, a few blocks away from Prospect Park. The room was functionalbed, desk, chair, closet, bedside table, lamp, clock radio, and phoneand there was a communal bathroom and trough-like sink on the top floor. He was booked in for two days and nights, after which he was taking a plane to England from JFK. Torres handed him his tickets, passport, $3,000 in cash, and two credit cards. Max thanked Torres for everything and they shook hands and said good-bye.
First thing Max did was open his door, step out of his room, walk back inside, and close it behind him. He liked it so much he did it again and again half a dozen times until he'd taken the shine off the novelty of being able to come and go as he pleased. Next thing he did was take off his clothes and check himself out in the wardrobe mirror.
Max hadn't seen himself naked in a mirror since he'd last been a free man. Seven years on, he looked good from the neck down, dressed in just his two tattoos. Big shoulders and bulging biceps, chunky forearms, a short, wide neck, a six-pack, thick thighs; put him in trunks and body oil and he could have won a Mr. Penitentiary award. There was an art to working out in prison. It wasn't about vanity and fitness; it was about survival. It was wise to be bigif you cast an impressive shadow, people thought twice about fucking with you, and usually kept out of your waybut you didn't want to get too big, in case you stood out and became a target for young first-timers out to get a rep; there was nothing more ridiculous-looking than a cellblock hulk dying from a toothbrush shiv rammed in his jugular. Max was very fit before he'd gone into prison. He'd been a three-time Golden Gloves middleweight boxing champion in his teens, and he'd stayed in shape running, swimming, and sparring at a local boxing gym near Coral Gables. Exercise wasn't a quantum leap to him; he had the built-in discipline that comes from learning to swallow a punch whole. He'd been allowed half an hour in Attica. He'd hit the weights six days a week, upper body one day, legs the next. He'd done three thousand push-ups and crunches in his cell, every morning, five hundred at a time.