A/N: I apologize in advance for the bad language. If you thought Tim had a mouth on him, you ain't heard nothin' yet!
Title taken from the line, 'Home is the place, where when you have to go there, They have to take you in.' From 'The Death of the Hired Man' by Robert Frost.
"Family support can be vital in these cases."
These cases? He can go screw himself sideways. I ain't nobody's 'case'. But I keep my face expressionless, as the head honcho of the parole board bitches on about the fact that no one showed to speak up for me. The bald guy next to him jumps in:
"Mr. Riley's mother and brother are both in full time employment. And his sister is currently on bed rest, due to a difficult pregnancy..."
Holy shit. Little Angel got knocked up? I make myself focus and gradually realize that the dumb bald bastard is making a good point. What he's saying is, that I fuckin' well do have a family, they're just all kind of busy with real life, so they can't be here listening to goddamn do-gooders hash over my unreal one.
"...And, with gainful employment, something that I have arranged and will supervise carefully, Mr. Riley will have every reason to forge a secure position as a useful member of society..."
I have a job on the outside. Apparently. Well, fuck me.
xxXxx
Ain't no more sunlight on this side of the gate than the other. But I blink anyway.
"Bus stop's over the other side. Watch for traffic now." Fucking comedian, the exit guard. Fuckin' thieves too, all of 'em. I got my clothes back, the jacket, jeans and shirt I was wearing when I went in, my wallet too, complete with two bucks and a Trojan. But not the switch or chain I was packing and not my smokes neither. Although I guess ten year old weeds would be kind of stale. I pat my wallet for about the seventh time. It feels weird to have anything in my pockets. To have pockets.
There's a piercing whistle that makes me jump to attention as I cross the road. What did I do wrong? Where was I supposed to cross?
And then I see him, standing next to a beaten up Dodge.
"Save you the bus fare?" is Curly's greeting. I go over to the god-awful car. No two panels are quite the same color. He got real tall, I need to tilt my chin slightly, to look him in the eye.
"Hey, Dom," he says, the grin fading into something more nervy looking.
And I want him to be Tim.
I figured, for a long, long time that it would be Tim meeting me out here. Even after he wrote me that he'd been suckered into the fuckin' Army, I figured he'd still be home before me. Then I got a letter from Curly. At that point, he was still ten years old in my mind, still the annoying brat I saw at dinner sometimes. Might as well have been ten, for the spelling and handwriting in the letter, although I guess I ain't got nothing to crow about on that front. But I worked out what he was trying to tell me was, that Tim was out the Army. And that was the last they heard. Curly tried to keep up some kind of letter writing after that, but we ain't exactly ideal penpal material and we never made no arrangements for today.
So I ask him, "How'd ya know to be here?"
"Your PO. He came by. Wanted to know if you could live with Ma."
Oh. Right. Dumb bald guy, arranging my life for me, again. I remember the parole officer, or social worker or whatever, who got assigned me back when I was in the reformatory. I don't think he even knew my name. This one sounds like he's gonna be harder to shake.
"Thing is," Curly's saying, as we climb in what passes for his wheels, "thing is, she didn't think it was...I mean, it's kind of...Thing is, I got me a place, so you can stay with me. Yeah?"
Yeah. I see how the 'thing' is. Ria ain't rolling out any welcome mat. Same old, same old. Only this time it ain't her ma pickin' up the pieces, it's Curly. I tell him thanks, just 'til I get on my feet. He shrugs.
I spend a few minutes getting used to being in a car. I ain't gonna own to feeling sick to my stomach, but I'm glad enough when we hit the highway and Curly can stop throwing the junker around every corner at speed.
After about half an hour, Curly asks if I wanna eat. We're coming up on a diner and he's hungry apparently. I ain't, because it ain't twelve thirty so it ain't lunchtime, but I tell him okay.
The noise of the diner hits my ears as wrong, somehow, but I'm in the booth opposite Curly before I work out why. The mess hall wasn't never quiet, it ain't the noise that's freaking me. It's different voices. It's the tones. I can hear the broad behind the counter yelling orders through to the kitchen. I can hear chicks across the room laughing. Kids even.
"Dom."
I was twisting around to try and see the girls who are laughing somewhere, when Curly jabbed my arm with the menu. I've slapped it out of his hand before I think. He shoots me a surprised look, pushing it back in front of me.
"You wanna order or not?" The waitress is old and tired looking. I realize they was probably both talking to me. I grab the menu and look hard, like I'm in the habit of choosing my food. Out the corner of my eye I see the woman flick her eyes over me. "How about a cheeseburger, darlin'?" Her voice softens. "Maybe some fries?" I nod and she scratches on her pad. "Coffee?"
"Juice," I blurt. "No, wait. Coke."
She tilts her head and smiles a little, walking away. I resist the feeling that comes over me to rub my prison crew cut and settle for scratching the back of my neck. I wonder how many guys she sees in here, first stop out the Pen, paralyzed by the simple fact of having a choice.
The waitress brings silverware with the food, although Curly ignores it and tears into his burger two handed. I pick up the fork, then the knife, weighing them, working out how much they would be worth on my block. How many weeds, how many favors would I be up, if I passed them on? Even a table knife would be highly prized above a sharpened toothbrush or piece of jagged tile. I resist the urge to put them in my pocket and pick up my glass instead.
The soda is cold, iced - despite the fact that it's winter - and it tastes like my mouth was waiting to be woken up this whole time. Whatever horse piss they served up in the mess hall, it wasn't never the real deal.
Curly pauses between mouthfuls and grins at me as I set down the empty glass and belch.
"Only Coke refreshes." I wink, but he don't get it, just asks me if I wanna buy the world one, or something equally freaky. I wonder if he expects me to pay my way and I'm conscious of the fact that the prices on the menu are double what I expected – this place is charging thirty frigging cents for a cheeseburger.
The smell of the food is getting to me, so I open up the burger and peer between the layers, then reassemble it. It tastes good.
"You used to take the tomato out. When we was kids." Curly watched me inspect the food, but he's missed the point of why. "Gramma never let me, but you always tossed it away."
I shrug. I guess circumstances have made me less of a picky eater. Apart from checking for bits of broken glass, or any other extras, that is.
He sees me watching a family in a booth across from us. The dad is losing his rag with the brats' squabbling and he orders them all out to the car. I stay completely motionless, except for my eyes, which follow him as he goes past. He flinches in surprise and I smile, slowly. He's cussing under his breath as he leaves.
Curly raises his eyebrows. "You know him?"
I nod. I don't explain that the guy, that family man, is a guard on the night shift on my block, famous for being quick with his nightstick and his fists. And it makes me surprisingly happy that he can't control his own damn kids.
xxXxx
There's a freaky mesh of known and unknown as we drive into the neighborhood; there are buildings I recognize, but they ain't always next to each other, new stores and apartment blocks have appeared, or there are gaps where others have been torn down.
I wind down the window, catcalling and whistling, as we go past a couple of fine looking chicks.
"What the hell you doin', man?" Curly snaps.
I laugh, high on freedom and the possibilities that stretch in front of me. "Hit the brakes, they was smokin' hot."
"They was carrying school books. You wanna get both of us arrested?"
Shit. They looked...eighteen to me. Maybe seventeen. The kind of girl I would have had no trouble picking up. Before. I wind the window back up and lean back into the seat.
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.
One time, I remember, Morris's girl complained that a regular customer, over to the grocery store where she worked, was hitting on her. We waited for him in the parking lot and broke his windshield. Told him he was a dirty old man, 'cause she was only sixteen. Like we were. He must have been about thirty. Fuck.
Curly's looking down an intersection, away from me, deciding which way to turn. "Did you wanna go see Ma?"
"Sure." I nod, then catch myself. "Wait. You talkin' about Ria now?" He gulps, embarrassed. For himself or for me I ain't sure. "I know you know," I tell him. "But here's the thing. Ma was my ma, okay? I mean 'Gramma' for you. I ain't never thought of Ria as 'Ma'. Just so you know."
"Okay." He seems to relax a little. Then he flicks his eyes over to me. "So which did you answer yes to? Gramma? You wanna go to the cemetery?"
I suddenly hear her voice. "Dominic, the Lord sees you in your shame. Coming here with the stink of that place still on you." She always complained about the smell, when she visited me. Always told me my sins were visible to the big guy in the sky. Which was a crock since I didn't hardly never get under the sky.
"Nah," I say to Curly. "Not today. But...you think Ria would wanna...?" Didn't he tell me she wouldn't have me to live with her? Told the PO what he could do with his plan? Maybe that extends to not wanting to see me at all. I think of a delay. "Maybe I should get cleaned up first?" I'm asking, not for permission exactly, but maybe for approval.
"Yeah. I got some threads you can borrow. Get you movin' on from the 'Rebel Without a Cause' look, huh?"
The fuck? He's wearing jeans and a T shirt, same as me. Okay, his jeans are kind of big on the bottom, where mine are tight, with turn ups, but still.
Curly laughs at my reaction. "Time to drag you into the Seventies, man."
He pulls up outside a ratty looking apartment block and takes me up to the third floor. He's like a frigging real estate agent, showing me how to work the water heater and explaining that the one faucet sticks unless you turn it just so. I realize that he's nervous.
"I appreciate this, man. You know that, right? You didn't haveta to put me up." I hope I sound as sincere as I am.
He looks surprised. "Yeah, I did. Ain't nothin' more important than family."
Both of us pause, as that phrase echoes between us. I'd lay money we're thinking about the same person, but right then there's a knock on the door.
Dumb bald guy comes in, unannounced and uninvited, looking disappointed that he don't find us shooting up or having an orgy or something.
"I wanted to see you settled in, Dominic," he says, like he's my den mother, "and to check I had all the details right for Jerome's address."
I stare in surprise as Curly nods.
"I go by 'Jerry'," he grunts. "For work an' stuff."
"Just the two of you living here?" Baldy consults his file. "Because my colleague down at the office mentioned you have another brother...Timothy? Where does he live?"
"California." Curly answers before I can say anything. He sounds so sure.
Baldy looks around the apartment and makes an appointment for me to visit him on Monday. I wonder how he'd react if I sniffed my way around his office, like he just did to us. I close the door on him and ask Curly if that's where Tim is, for real?
He shrugs. "That's where the last post card come from."
"Saying what?"
"Sayin' not to expect him home any time soon."
"Anytime soon? When the fuck was that?"
He tells me. Four years. Longer than he was gone in the Army. And at least we knew where he was then, even if it was the fucking jungle.
"Listen," Curly drops into the one armchair as he speaks, his tone flat. "I made my peace with the fact that he ain't coming back. You'd best do the same."
"I need a drink." The words spill out of me and Curly twitches.
"Don't tell me that. You can want a drink all you like, but needing it is a whole other crap game."
What?