The Baddest Ass (Billy Lafitte #3) (7 page)

"It's worth the consequences?"

Shrugs. "My room's got a door."

She turns the volume up. "Next song. Something cleaner, or I find the preaching station."

It takes him three skips to finally settle on one. But after a verse he says, "Can I listen to the radio?"

He chooses a bland pop station and he hates it, she knows, but at least it's not preaching.

South on I-29. Then out west past miles of white. Nothing. Visibility getting worse. She should have gotten a hotel in Fargo and waited it out, but the still small voice is pushing her. Has to be now. Has to be. She hasn't driven in snow in, what, twenty years? Back before Mr. Hoeck got the job on the Gulf Coast. Back before they discovered the Pentecostal faith, even. At first she had wondered how she would live without the changing seasons and the white Christmases. But it only took one winter of mild temperatures and clean roads to have her saying grace for the blessing the Lord had given them.

They are quiet. But then they usually are, especially in the car. Ham has shut down recently. Again, boys will be boys. But even a grandmother's attempt to spoil with cookies, toys, trips to see movies she can barely understand and which give her headaches? Barely a thanks. Barely a smile sometimes. Barely.

She can tell he's getting nervous when they pull into the prison parking lot. The fence, the checkpoints, the main cellblocks, all new and high-tech. Still signs of construction all around, but no one working today. They'd missed the window, couldn't finish by the end of November, meaning there's now a max security prison
with prisoners in it
sitting unfinished for four to five more months. They couldn't leave it empty. Not with all these jobs at stake.

Maybe the boy is nervous, but he's also fascinated. It's the middle of the morning and still very dark, near whiteout conditions sweeping in quickly, and the powerful lights all around the grounds make the prison feel gothic, like there are mad scientists in there. Maybe she should tell Ham that, get his imagination firing. But she doesn't. He still says "Cool" under his breath.

"Get yourself ready. Zipped, hat on, mittens on."

While he gets that together, Mrs. Hoeck calls ahead to the gatehouse and tells them to be ready. She isn't sure the Southern-bought coats will be up for the beating they are about to receive. She bought the longest she could for herself, the thickest for Ham. She even toyed with getting some sweatpants to go beneath her floor-length skirt, but the still small voice guilted her away from that. The guards would know when they did their searching. She would not compromise. So she got the longest coat the department store carried. They only had hot pink. It was one size too small.

With the engine off, the car ices up quickly inside and out and the winds bounce it around on the suspension.

Grandma looks at Ham, their hands around the door handles. "One...two...three...go!"

*

The waiting room. Mrs. Hoeck hums tunes from choir practice. She grew up on folk rock, then made the switch to Southern Gospel, so the new choir music full of synthesizers and jazzy chord changes just doesn't suit her, but then again she can't get the tunes out of her head after three practices a week. Ham ignores the toys in the corner. She doesn't blame him. What sorts of kids visit here, anyway? No, don't think like that. That's not what the Lord would think. He would welcome the children of these criminal fathers with open arms. After all, who is Ham if not one of those?

They are alone in the waiting room except for a guard, a friendly if formal young man. Not more than three sentences about the weather. He blinks a lot when looking at her hot pink parka. She takes it off and rolls it up on the chair beside her like a hideous sleeping bag.

The door opens and a woman is escorted in. Black trousers and white blouse, her hair damp and limp, although it looks like she must have fixed it up nicely before coming. That and the make-up, heavy on the lips and eyes. She could do with some concealer for the old acne scars, Mrs. Hoeck thinks. But no, that's not true. We are all what we are, and that's why the Lord doesn't like women to wear make-up. Their beauty is in their spirit, not in their outward appearance. A beautiful woman inside is beautiful on the outside, no make-up or haircuts or jewelry necessary.

This one, however, she looks as if she is here for a date. Sultry, even. She takes a peek at Mrs. Hoeck then looks away as the woman guard instructs her to sit, and then the guards talk casually, one of them saying how it feels weird here without a full staff today. That makes Mrs. Hoeck tighten her guts and hum louder. If the staff can't even make it to work, how can the visitors leave?

The woman visitor must still be in her twenties—so young and yet here? In love with a man inside? So much wasted potential. Think of the good men out there who'd do anything for attention from this one. A farm girl. Mrs. Hoeck knows the look of farm girls. She knows they only clean up so well. And this one, as obvious as the color on her lips, is angry. Really angry.

So she hums some more. Can't get that song to leave her be.
Glory, glory, glory, and away we'll fly
. What has happened to songwriters? So fluffy, these choir songs. She still hums and hums and considers striking up a conversation with the red-haired woman in the make-up. Ask her why. Ask her if she knows the Lord. But she knows that'll either get her a glazed look in response, or, worse, cussed out. That's not the way to win people. You
show
them the Holy Ghost in you through your actions, your kindness, your peace, and The Lost will eventually come to you and ask what makes you so...so...joyful.

The woman notices the humming. Mrs. Hoeck is almost certain the young lady would like to tell her to stop. She hasn't put her boots back on yet. Her feet are nearly blue, even with the black stockings. Her trouser legs are wet. She's not happy to be here. Those women guards aren't happy to have her here, either. They were nice as could be with Mrs. Hoeck and Ham. So this woman, whoever she is, makes everyone itchy. Including Mrs. Hoeck, scratching the cuticle of her thumb.

Ham strikes out. He's been kicking his leg out, harder each time, but now he kicks at the chair across, maybe there's even a
crack
. Mrs. Hoeck hisses a "
Shh!
" like a bullwhip and Ham shrinks. Grandma's anger is silent, unbearable. Grandpa might not "spare the rod", but at least he hugs you later and tells you why he did it. Grandma holds grudges. Maybe it's not what Jesus would've done, and she's prayed on it many, many times, but it's the sin of pride. If not for grace, that would be her downfall.

The noise makes the red-haired woman look up. Wide-eyed. Maybe the shush reminds her of her own parents' warnings, because Mrs. Hoeck can tell this farm girl has suddenly taken a disliking towards her. And it feels awful.

It's not long before the guards come for the red-haired woman, calling her Colleen, leading her out the door she'd just come in. It's quiet again. The polite young man's radio crackles. Ham's legs kick again, softer this time.

Another radio crackle. The guard responds, "Affirmative. Coming your way," then turns to Mrs. Hoeck. "Ma'am?"

She stands, holds her coat in front of her, hands tucked in like it's a muffler. She tells Ham to walk ahead of her. "Listen to Mr. Guard. I'm right behind you." She does not want him to see how tight she's clamping her jaw, how her nostrils are flaring. He doesn't need to know how afraid his grandmother is, if he doesn't already know. If she's ever shown him anything in his tough, short life, it's that the man they're about to visit has no power over her. She hopes Jesus will forgive her for that lie.

*

A row of seats, one long desk, smooth steel partitions between each. Enough space for two chairs per slot. A wall of thick glass. Or maybe plastic. She can't tell. The room has an industrial heater and feels too warm. It also looks as if the room has never been used before. No one else in any of the visitor stalls. Strange. Or is it? Maybe she's the only one crazy enough to venture out. They didn't tell her not to come on the phone, not even a warning about driving carefully. And at least some of these fine guards made it to work, so it must be a fluke. At least it's quieter like this.

Ham sees him before Mrs. Hoeck does, she knows, because he slows his steps. Then stops. Five feet to go. Mrs. Hoeck puts her hand on his shoulder, sees past the partition a sliver at a time. Elbow. Bicep. Shirtsleeve. Those eyes. She instantly feels a demonic presence slamming into her armor of faith. Real, no kidding evil. She coughs, like it's been punched out of her. But she walks on.

In full, arms crossed on the desk and hunched over some, he's massive. Not tall, because he's not that, no, no. More muscled than she's ever seen him, stretching his shirt to the limit, but it's been a long time. Since Katrina, when Ginny finally got some sense and divorced him before he dragged the whole family down. Yet he's obviously broken. Scarred, chiseled, hard. His hair is strange, buzzed on the sides, spiky up top but a mullet in the back. Almost as if he let the people inside cut him, dress him, abuse him however they wanted…to a point. Because it's written on his skin that he had to fight to survive. She thinks by now it must simply be an instinct, because looking at him, she can't find a single clue why he'd still want to.

A phone handset. Mrs. Hoeck tells Ham to take a seat. Then she does, and she picks up the phone.

Billy doesn't.

She says, "Pick up the phone, Billy. Talk to your son."

Ham can't even lift his eyes. And Billy can't take his eyes off Ham.

He finally lifts the phone. Hugs it to his cheek. "Told you not to bring him here."

"And I told you I had to. He has to see you."

"Yeah, cause of Jesus, I know." Sigh. "Put him on."

She isn't sure she should small-talk him. Scold him for being so short. "I want to listen."

He winces. "Fine. Just, hurry up." Even the voice is different. Flat and full of air, like a balloon hissing out.

Mrs. Hoeck tells Ham to stand. He does, and he grips her sweater sleeve. Maybe this is as far as they need to go. What can Billy say that can work any better than just looking at what he's become? She feels Ham's fear, embarrassment, and hopes the grace keeping hers in check would blanket over her grandson, too. But she hands the phone to Ham, shows him how to hold it so she can hear, too.

He looks at his dad and says, "Hey."

"Do you even remember me, boy?"

Ham nods all shy.

"Talk to me. Don't be a pussy. You look me in the eye and say ‘Yes, Sir.' You still say Sir, even if you ain't got respect for a man. You just do."

"Yes, Sir."

"Louder?"

"
Yessir!
"

There are two guards standing against the wall behind Billy, flanking him. One might think they weren't paying attention, staring into space, but one smirks as Billy tells his son about respect. Mrs. Hoeck wishes she felt something more fruitful, like guardian angels protecting these poor guards, doing what needs to be done. But all she feels from them is contempt.

Billy mumbles, "Good, good." Then, "Are you being good to your mother?"

Of course he would ask that. Let him hear it from the boy.

"I don't see her. She had to leave. Sometimes she calls me."

Billy flicks his eyes towards Mrs. Hoeck. She sits tall the way she does in church during Wednesday night Bible study. Not the time for shouting and praising, but for decorum and formality. Looks into Billy's eyes, which might as well be deep, dark wells.

She takes the phone from Ham. "She's in a hospital."

"Why the fuck is she is a hospital? What sort of shit—you could have told me—"

Wincing. "A psychiatric hospital, Billy. She needs time."

"You telling me she's crazy?" He's hunching, coming out of his chair. The guards take a step forward, hands free, ready. Mrs. Hoeck can't help but take a sharp breath. They could stun him, spray him, wrestle him, right in front of his son. But Billy catches it, relaxes again and says, "It's fine," over his shoulder. "Bad news from home is all."

Ham hides behind his grandmother. Hands in his pockets.

Billy says, "She's crazy? What's this all about?"

"Not in front of Ham. She…had some trouble. She…wanted to hurt herself."

He hangs his head low, rubs his fingers on his forehead. The phone is loose in his hand, and Mrs. Hoeck thinks he's going to drop it. But he doesn't. He grips it tighter and says, "Pills?"

She shakes her head. "It's been very hard on her."

"You know, before all, like, all of this," He waves his hand around. "I had a dream about her. Her wrists were bandaged, like before, you know? And I thought that was weird. Why right then, at that moment? Why? But…we've always had, you know, a connection—"

"Don't do that. Don't say that."

"—just knew, right? Somehow. If you had never, uh…you and that asshole husband of yours…do you think I wanted to lose my family? Do you really think I would have ever hurt them?"

"That's enough. This is about your son. Ham needs to see what you really are. You know he does. And you're going to tell him what happened because you denied the Lord and you let the Devil push all of your buttons—"

"Fuck you, you sanctimonious bitch."