Chapter Thirty-Eight

It was visiting day, so everyone preened and primped in front of the plastic mirrors anchored around their collective room. The boys who bunked in the middle hogged them the most because they were the ones who had been there the longest and were apt to stick the same pen they were using for math homework into the side of your neck.

It just wasn’t worth it.

So, Travis traced his pain instead, his mother’s face in a small cell, her small body on a dreary bed. He felt more connected to her than he ever had when she was around. After a while, his grandmother stopped telling him things like how much his mom had always loved him and carried him around like a China doll. He harbored hate in his heart because those had been glimpses his mind and body craved, but now that he was older, he knew it was because it was hard for Marge to talk about her daughter, knowing she’d never get to see her in the same capacity that she used to.

She’d never get to love her the same either.

He had gotten a phone call. It was from some white lady who sounded both tired and overly caffeinated at the same time. Then Marge had called to reveal the same news, and boy was she mad when Travis told her the white lady had already called to tell him about it. It felt oddly good, like he was being fought over, never mind it was between his grandmother and some lady who exuded sweat even through the phone.

He was getting a new lawyer. He supposed he should be happy about that. But happiness was a whole other animal in a place like this. Happiness was an extra fruit cup at lunch because your boy doing his duty in the cafeteria hooked you up. Happiness was sitting down on the john and there still being toilet paper left even when yours was the last behind to be wiped. Happiness is fleeting, never trust it. His grandfather, Franklin, had said those words years ago when Travis was stupidly grinning with an ice cream cone stuck in his face. He didn’t like that, his grandfather restructuring his feelings so that now all Travis felt was a strong sense of guilt whenever anything was slightly better than intolerable. But he knew Franklin had a point. The man always did. But that point was still sometimes too sharp to swallow.

It made him worry about Douglas. Douglas was nothing but one big ball of happy, at least from appearances. But Travis knew there was a demon there deep inside his cousin, making him prance and stalk and worry only about the things of this world that would bring him pleasure. He knew though that Douglas hadn’t liked killing that old man. That it wasn’t pleasurable for him. But he did like knowing how impressed the Bloods would be and how quickly he would move up the ranks, clawing closer and closer within their pit of hell.

Then why do you follow him?

The question was almost as clear as if Roman’s bad breath had given it life. But it hadn’t come from the outside where the boys were clamoring for space to stare at their faces. It was a voice from within.

Travis looked quickly to his left, then his right, and whispered, “Who else am I supposed to follow?”

You know who.

He did know. He knew ever since he was a little boy and watched the way Walt loved his Uncle Garrett. It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen that same love in Marge, but Walt wasn’t family. And he didn’t rudely stare or laugh behind his hand when Garrett searched the sky like he had left his keys there. He had always loved his uncle, too, and knowing someone like Walt quietly took on the pain of loving someone forever at the mercy of a restless crowd made him admire him even more.

He had even talked to Walt once about Douglas. He threw things out there with no real agenda, just curious at what Walt would pick up and pocket or discard in a heap. But Walt would just nod his head and look back at Travis and ask him what he thought. What is it about Douglas that snags at your soul?

“He’s blind to his own deception.”

“Come again, Cowboy?” Roman asked, his toothy face dangling over the edge of his bunk and into Travis’s.

“Nothing.”