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Anger brews and boils, but I clamp it down. I can’t let any of that shit show in there. I have to be cool, calm, happy to see my old man. He needs the pick-me-up, right? He deserves it. It’s not like he’s got any other visitors.
His parents died years ago. I doubt any of his buddies from the garage bother, and Mom left him high and dry.
I’m it.
So I have to make it count.
Parking my bike, I saunter into the prison, going through the usual rigmarole. They keep telling me to switch to video visits. It’d be easier on everybody. But screw that. I like the drive down. It’s a good way to clear my head. I want to see my father properly, not be looking at him through a screen. Besides, the Wi-Fi is probably shitty this far out from anything, and at least this way we can talk properly without technology being a pain in the ass.
I take my allocated seat and wait for Dad to appear behind the plexiglass.
Other families are already settled. The mom with her two kids, who shows up every time I do, is smiling at her husband, and I’m instantly jealous.
I doubt I’ll be smiling much today. Prison stole my dad’s good mood, and I’m not sure he’ll ever get it back. I haven’t seen the guy smile or heard him laugh in?—
Oh fuck.
Dad appears, shuffling up to the plexiglass and plunking down into his seat. I study his banged-up face. The bruising looks a few days old, the swelling around his cheek and chin already dying down. I can only imagine how it looked the day after it happened.
Picking up the phone with a sigh, I hold the receiver to my ear and mutter, “At least you’re not in solitary this time.”
Dad clears his throat, shuffling in his seat and looking like I’m the last person he wants to see.
Some visits go better than others.
Occasionally, he’ll be in a chatty mood, asking about my classes and football. He seems proud of what I’m doing.
Other times he’s like this, quiet and guarded.
Shit. I wanted to tell him about Nylah, but not if he’s glaring at me like he wishes I would disappear.
“So…” I clear my throat, trying to make the best of it anyway. “How’s it going?”
Dumbest question in the world.
“How the fuck do you think it’s going?” Dad grumbles, rubbing a hand across his forehead.
“What happened?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“I do.” I lean a little closer to the plexiglass. “Talk to me, Dad.”
“Just helping out a little guy. That’s all.”
My lips curl up at the corners and I start to nod, softly mumbling, “You’re a good man.”
“No.” He closes his eyes. “Fuck, Carson. No. I’m not a good man, okay? I don’t even know why you keep coming to visit me.”
“Because you’re my dad.”
“You’ve already got one of those on the outside.” His voice is clipped and quiet, but it feels like a punch to the face.
I lean away, thumping back in my chair and hissing, “That asshole is not my father.”
He snorts and shakes his head. “Got in another bust-up, huh?”
“Fucker doesn’t want me in his house again. Apparently, I’m an ungrateful little shit.”