Willie had never seen the inside of a prison before, but he knew lots of people who had. Mostly his trailer-trash buddies from the Bremerhaven, who were never short on anecdotes and advice. Prison was not all that different from being at St. Jerome's: keep under the wire, follow the rules, and be careful in the recess yard. Most importantly, don't show any sign of weakness. They will prey on the weak.

The first point of order was to join a gang. That afforded the best protection against getting beaten up, raped or murdered. The down side was you could be called upon at any time to perform favors—stab someone or hide contraband—and you had a mandatory lifetime membership. That meant the lifetime of your sentence, but for many it was the same thing.

Gangs were formed by segregation so Willie crossed the yard in search of a group of Caucasian gentlemen who spoke English. A paunchy, darker dude (Mexican perhaps) called to him, "Hey, new bitch, get your skinny ass over here!"

That was a test. Being called a bitch or a punk was a signal to fight. Willie glanced at the white gang observing the scene with interest. He needed to demonstrate just how mean he could be, because the opposite of mean was weak.

With an innocent smile, Willie trotted obediently over to the flabby prisoner and, on the last step, swung his leg back and kicked him squarely in the nuts. With bulging eyes, his opponent collapsed to his knees, whereupon the new inmate smashed him in the face until his nose broke. The sight of gushing blood always makes a suitable impression, except with the guards who, conversing among themselves, never even looked up. Willie wiped his hands on his jumpsuit and resumed his mission to make new friends.

The congregation eyed him with varying looks of curiosity, apathy, suspicion or antagonism, somewhat surprised that the little punk had the balls to approach their gang without an invitation. This ignorant greenhorn better learn the rules of prison protocol damn fast or he wouldn't survive his first day in the yard.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" The obvious leader, a muscular, deeply tanned man sporting a roadmap of tattoos, stepped forward with an intimidating stare.

Willie locked eyes with his and did not flinch. "Shanty Irish bastard."

The leader barked a laugh, revealing several missing teeth. "Me, too!"

After a brief interview, the new prisoner was accepted into their social group.

Willie's ambition was to become the meanest little shit on Cellblock 11, yet remain loyal to his fellow gang members and Tank, their leader, and be mindful of the guards. After all, no on in their right mind wants to provoke an arrogant gorilla wielding pepper spray and a club.

Prisoner 2061245 worked in the machine shop (where he fashioned himself a handy little shank to stash in his sock) and, when required to take a class in the evening, chose woodworking over Bible study. He ate bologna and grits for breakfast, slop for lunch, and slop with bread for dinner. Once his cellmate overstepped the bounds in an attempt to establish his position as alpha male and got severely beaten with a pillowcase full of soda cans. Willie went to the Hole for that one.

The convict spent his fair share of time in solitary confinement. It made others stir crazy but, except for the rotten food, he actually didn't mind it too much for short stretches; it was like a vacation from the yard. And Willie wasn't bored because, just like when he was a kid, the young man could close his eyes and go to hundreds of places. He could swim with dolphins, ride on whales, shoot at pirates. He was toking from a hookah, strolling through the Kilkenny fog, running from bulls in Pamplona, rolling on the hot beach with a well-oiled blonde, dancing drunk in the Hong Kong streets, sharing a cigarette on a deck with Jason.

Jason.

Willie had to stop himself from beginning every other sentence with Jason used to say…It sounded queer, but he missed his old partner. Ever since he was a kid, Jason had always taken care of him, steered his course, and where the fuck was he? Maybe the Irishman never got better and went to a loony bin. Or maybe he did recover and decided to start over without his excess baggage. Jason probably found himself a new teenage moneymaker—one who wasn't so much trouble.

September 1981

Finally, Loomis heard his name called on Visiting Day. He had 90 minutes to think about what to say while waiting in line for a cubicle. But all of those thoughts dropped out of his brain in a clump because it was not Jason who sat down in the visitor's chair. It was Lydia.

After almost 10 years, his mother looked a little older, a little smaller than he remembered, but was still the prettiest girl in town. Willie managed to catch his breath and squeeze out a greeting, "Hey, toots."

"Big Bill, oh god." tears rolled down both cheeks as her hand reached across the table. A guard's whistle sounded, and she quickly withdrew. There was an awkward silence.

"How did ya find me?"

"Honey, I never stopped looking for you. We called the police, offered rewards, hired detectives. Your stepfather, Richard, paid for everything. I was so afraid you'd been kidnapped or hurt—or murdered. After all these years, we just about gave up hope—and then one of the private investigators called to say your name came up on a criminal background check."

"But Jason said—" Willie felt horrible. "I was stupid, I didn't think. It's just that it—felt weird, 'cause ya had a new family and all, and I figured—y-you wouldn't want me around anymore—I dunno." He stared at the tabletop as she reached out again. Another whistle. Second warning.

"You're my baby. I will always want you."

Willie struggled through an uncomfortable silence. "How's he doin'? Your—other kid," he asked softly.

"Ricky's nine, and I have a little girl now, too." She retrieved from her purse a wallet-sized snapshot of two chubby cherubs with blond ringlets and rosy cheeks frozen in a photographer's pose. Her oldest child looked at the picture for several minutes. Bright eyes, sunny smiles, coordinated outfits.

"Do ya take 'em to Little League and stuff?" He tried to sound casual, but Lydia detected the slight edge to his voice.

Tears welled up again in his mother's eyes. "Bill, I'm so sorry. I know I was a bad mother, and your childhood wasn't easy. If I had paid more attention to you and given you a better home life, you never would have gotten into trouble and ended up at that reform school. You wouldn't have run away—it was all my fault."

"Please—don't cry." Willie searched his brain for a positive comment. "You were prettier than anybody else's mom; I was proud a' ya. And you hadda go to work every day while all those other moms sat around on their fat asses watchin' soap operas." Lydia continued to utilize a tissue which had outlasted its life expectancy. "Sometimes folks haveta drink when they're sad; I know all about that."

That brought on a fresh wave of rhinorrhea and remorse. This time Willie reached out his hand, but yanked it back before the whistle reached the guard's mouth.

The young man continued, "Stop; it wasn't all that bad, and if it was, I never knew it. Look, everything turned out okay—except for this part now. I sailed 'round the world and had a lotta adventures, just like in a movie."

She smiled with a sadness that read, still making up stories, and glanced at the clock on the wall.

"We don't have much time. Listen carefully, I've spoken to a lawyer, and there's a good chance of getting your sentence commuted or even declaring a mistrial. Meanwhile, I've put $300 in your commissary account; that's the most they allow, so you can buy yourself whatever you need to get by. Promise me you'll take care of yourself, and don't get into any trouble, or this won't—"

The whistle blew and a guard shouted "Visit's over. Line up!"

"Bye, Lyddie—I mean Mom."

"Oh, call me Lyddie. That sounds better, don't you think?"

The young man smiled. "Thanks for comin' to see me. You're my first visitor."

"We'll talk soon. I love you, baby."

She queued up for the exit. He got in the line opposite to be returned to his cell.

In the weeks following, Willie met with his new lawyer. He appeared at a hearing and talked to a counselor, a judge and a probation officer. This was too good to be true. The jailbird was going to get sprung after less than four months. He could even leave the area to live with his mother and stepfather in upstate New York.

It seemed as though good fortune might finally smile on the hapless young man. Then, days before his release, a letter arrived from Jason. It was postmarked Portsmouth, New Hampshire, full of meaningless bullshit and signed Uncle Ernie. At the bottom was a phone number. Willie shoved it to the bottom of the plastic bag he was given to pack his paltry possessions.

He waited at the halfway house for a week, as was required by the conditions of his release. During that time, generous travel expenses arrived from Lydia along with several telephone calls. Their conversations felt strained but surely that would disappear in time. She tried to put the children on the phone, but they were shy and wouldn't talk to him.

Willie took out Jason's letter and read it yet again. This had to be some weird-ass code. After a great deal of internal debate, he picked up the phone and dialed.

The receiver picked up with no greeting.

"Hey, it's me," Willie said in a soft voice.

"Where are you callin' from?"

"Halfway house."

"Get to a public phone booth, and call me back. Collect." The man hung up and Willie did as he was instructed.

"Ah, that's better." The smile was back in Jason's voice. "It's good to hear from ya, mate. You're not an easy man to find. I only just learned about ya from a mutual acquaintance, another lad from that little gang of Irish rovers you joined; he too was recently sprung."

"Whadda ya want, Jason?"

"Just to see if you're okay, what else? We didn't part under ideal circumstances."

"Yeah, I'm fine. I guess you're doin' better now; that's good. "

"Just needed to get back on my feet, is all, and make a fresh start. So, tell me, what are your plans?"

"…I dunno." He was embarrassed to tell his old partner that, at age 24, he was about to go live with his mother.

"You know, you're always welcome to join me, mate. I kept your duffle bag all this time. Headin' north, I am, to a sleepy little village called Collinsport, Maine. It's time to pay a visit to a very dear friend of mine."

Willie smiled. "Does he owe you money?"

Jason smiled back. "No, 'tis a fair widow, and I'm hopin' she will bestow a token of her affection to my favorite charity. Hey, for old times' sake, why don't you meet me there? Sure an' there'll be somethin' in it for you. What's our motto? Share and share alike."

Willie said he would think about it, and Jason left him a forwarding address and phone number.

As he walked back to the shelter, the young man grappled with his conscience. It was territory with which he was not overly familiar. Willie could not dismiss the fact that his mom had spent all that time and money to find her son and get him out of jail, while Jason just conveniently showed up after the fact, full of blarney and promises.

But Lydia didn't realize how much this plan was going to disrupt her comfortable, suburban lifestyle. Her friends would most likely dump her when they learned she had an ex-con living under her roof. Little Dick would get beaten up in the schoolyard. Well, who cares, no doubt he was a spoiled brat anyway—probably had a TV in his bedroom. And no doubt Big Dick was a big dick. Christ, the last thing Willie needed was some overbearing stepfather laying down a bunch of rules. He wasn't a kid anymore.

How long would it be before they found about all the other things their wayward son had done over the course of his criminal career? It was a sure bet he wouldn't be so welcome then.

Willie had known, from age 15, he would always be an outsider to the new family. Jason had told him so repeatedly, and that he would be foolish to imagine otherwise. The young man felt uneasy at the thought of how he had hurt his mother, and was planning to do it again. Before she recovered from her addiction, Lyddie had needed him to take care of her. Not now. Lydia meant well—she still loved him—but she didn't need him anymore. Willie couldn't see himself as anything but a liability.

Besides, there was somewhere else he could go. His best friend wanted to team up with him again. Even if Willie was nothing but trouble, and Jason was a lying, scheming crook, they were used to each other, comfortable in their mutual shortcomings. And if there was a new game afoot, the Irishman probably needed his junior associate to play an important part.

Willie saw an index card on the grocery store bulletin board advertising a truck for sale and used his mom's money to buy the dented old pickup. Then he stowed his meager possessions in a shopping bag and headed north. He could write to Lydia when he got to East Bum-fuck, Maine, and explain. At least she knew he was alive now, safe and sound, and that's what mattered. When Jason shared his new score, Willie could repay the money. That way his mother would know he wasn't all bad.

Willie took to the road, a little uncertain about the future, but optimistic.

The Willie Loomis World Series
Little Willie
Globetrotters
The Maine Event
Changes
This Old House
Interlude
Haplessly Ever After