The sounds of the gates unlocking as I pass through each one should be music to my ears. It is not.
Once outside the first gate, I am handed a backpack and an envelope.
I have lost my manners. There are no thank yous within these walls, so I don’t thank the guard. It’s hard to tell if he’s corrupt like so many other inside, passing drugs and SIM cards amongst the convicts for extra money to afford them their own habits and luxuries.
I walk outside toward the main gate, not expecting one of those theatrical moments you read about in books or hear about in inspirational movies about men who have been rehabilitated or have come to find Jesus after doing their time. There is no silver lining or beautiful life waiting for me beyond these gates.
As I get closer, the armed guard in the tower above looks down at me as the gate opens.
Walking through them, I watch as a black Lincoln pulls up, the license plate reads: STEEL08. Then I take a deep breath when the window is rolled down and Vincent leans out and nods.
I walk to the car and open the passenger side door, not knowing what to expect. When I get in, I am pleased she’s not inside.
Vincent takes the toothpick out of his mouth. “A day early?”
“Apparently so,” I sigh out.
“My day off. You lucked out,” he says, putting the car in drive.
“Sorry to intrude,” I tell him.
“You don’t owe me an apology. Tammy, on the other hand, she’s been waiting all week for me to take her out on my boat, throw a line in, catch some dinner, and then, well, you know.”
“Well, when you see your girlfriend again, tell her I apologize.”
A phone sounds. I believe it’s coming through the car’s speakers.
He looks at the computer monitor, hits a button, and then pops in an earpiece.
“Yes?” He pauses. “It’s fine.” He pauses again. “Of course.”
He hangs up and looks at me. “Have to make a pit stop before heading to …” He smiles. “Where are you staying tonight?”
“Somewhere close to JFK. I fly out tomorrow.”
“Deported?”
I nod.
“I’ll gladly take you out to dinner tonight, but how about some fast food along the way?”
I look at him from out of the corner of my eye.
“Tacos?” he offers with a shit-ass grin.
“Sounds good,” I tell him, and he laughs.
After eating too many damn tacos, I get sleepy.
“I’m going to close my eyes for a few minutes.”
He nods. “All right.”
When he stops the car and puts it in park, I open my eyes and look out the window.
“Where are we?”
He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t even look at me when he gets out.
I watch him walk around the car and in the direction of what appears to be a church of some sort. I see a sign that says St. Mary’s.
I get a sick feeling in my stomach as I watch the steel doors open and prepare for the worst, for her. Instead, I see two little girls run out in navy uniforms.
Both girls appear to be the same age, and both have long, braided, black pigtails. As they get closer, I see they appear to be twins. I surmise that this Tammy that Vincent was talking about is his wife, and that the two have children.
When he opens the door for them, they bound in, giggling. I look back at them as they buckle themselves into their seatbelts.
When Vincent opens his door slides in, one of them asks, “Mom busy?”
“She is,” he answers, looking back. “Are you both buckled?”
“We are,” the other seems to mock him.
The one who spoke first tells her sister, “Be nice. It’s his day off.”
“She was supposed to take us to get ice cream,” the more mischievous one says.
“Was not,” her sister again calls her out.
Vincent puts the car in drive and laughs.
“You gonna introduce us to the new guy?” Miss Mischievous asks.
“Just a friend of mine who needs a ride,” Vincent tells her.
“You got no car?” she asks me.
I shake my head in answer.
“You can’t talk either?” she mocks as she laughs.
“Manners, little lady,” Vincent interjects. “Tell me about your day.”
Not wanting to intrude on their private time any more than I already have, I reach into my pocket and pull out the earbuds and MP3 player I bought eight years ago to drown out the noise. I notice a pair of sunglasses in the bag as well and put them on. Then I close my eyes and listen to Puccini.
When we slow and begin to turn, I open my eyes again and look out the window, seeing the ocean. We then pull up to a gate where Vincent punches in a code. I think how exquisite his life has turned out. That is confirmed when we pull up in front of a beautiful home. He indeed has made a good life for himself here.
He gets out of the car and shuts the door behind him.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn around while pulling the earbud out of my ear.
“It was nice to meet you, mister.” Miss Mischievous smiles. Or, at least I think it’s her.
“You as well,” I tell her.
I look at the other girl who just looks at me. I nod. She nods back.
“It was nice to meet you, as well.”
She tips her head to the side and looks at me even more oddly.
“Come on,” the other girl says, tugging on her hand.
Capitolo Quattro
Valentina
I walk out the door and see my girls running toward me. Opening my arms to them, within seconds, one is on each side. I pull them into a hug and look up to see Vincent standing in front of me, looking at me. I notice immediately he has no sunglasses on shielding his eyes and that he looks like he has something to say.
“Ice cream! We want ice cream!”
“Everything all right?” I ask Vincent.
When he just stares blankly at me, I know something is off.
“Girls, run inside. Aunt Joe is here, I’m sure.” I don’t have to try to convince them when they run into the house at the mere mention of Aunt Joe’s name.
“What is it?”
His eyes shift toward the car, where I see a man inside.
Immediately, realization sets in. I know who it is.
As I begin walking past Vincent, he reaches for my arm, grabbing it lightly. I turn swiftly and grab his arm.
“Goddammit, Valentina,” he says right before I twist and sweep his legs out from under him, a move he taught me, before proceeding to the car.
Before I get to it, the door is opened, and he steps out.
Franco.
My heart stops.
His clothes cling to his body tighter than I ever remember him wearing them. He looks bigger, older, stronger, and worn. His hair is shorter.
I had years to prepare for what I would say to him, yet no words come out of my mouth. Instead, I inhale slowly, trying to put air back in my lungs, the air that has been knocked out by the sight of him.
I want to be angry at him, to slap him, to tell him how much he hurt me. At the same time, I want to tell him I understand. I understand him and forgive him. I want him to wrap those strong arms around me, to lift me, to place his lips to mine. I want him to whisper how he has missed me, that he loves me, that he is sorry, and that he will make it up to me, to us, for the rest of his very long life.