“That’s nice,” I say. I try to catch my uncle’s eye so I can silently plead with him to excuse me, but he’s smiling, waiting for a story I know I don’t want to hear if it involves cards.
But Mike is already laughing, shoulders bouncing under his flannel shirt. “One night after lights out, your dad said we should play cards with our neighbors in the next cell. So we passed notes through the vent and played Go Fish around the wall. Miguel laughed a little too loud, and a guard showed up, yelling to get in bed.
“Your dad said, ‘Come on, boss, what are you gonna do—throw us in prison?’”
All the men laugh, loud and unrestrained, like they’re back in that cell.
“The guard wasn’t even mad. He laughed, told us to hit the hay, and walked off.” Mike grins. “He was always good for a laugh.”
“And good for playing cards,” I say, wishing I could keep things as light as these men can.
“Oh, yeah, him and the cards.” Mike shrugs. “We all got demons, kid.”
“His last year, he figured things out, though,” Miguel says. “Got back on the wagon.”
My ears perk up. “How so?”
“Went back to his Thursday meetings—Gamblers Anonymous, in the chapel. Didn’t want to come back home an addict.”
The lump I’ve been trying to swallow all day swells to grapefruit size. “He didn’t?”
“Nah,” Mike says, as if that says it all. “Like I said. He figured things out.”
Miguel is nodding. “We worked out every day together. Do you know how many pushups that guy could do?”
Pushups?
The word snags my attention, pulling it back to Miguel. “My dad did pushups?”
Mike cocks his head, clearly confused. “What do you mean? You guys had that challenge for years: pushups, wall-sits, planks. Man, those stupid planks. He’d do them on the floor in our cell. It was so annoying.”
“He always talked about how he had to keep up with his Gracie Lou,” Miguel says with a chuckle. Then he looks me over. “No way you can do a five minute plank.”
“I can do an eight minute plank. But I stop at five, because planks are evil,” I say. This gets a laugh from all of them.
“You sound like Kevin,” Mike says. His eyes pause on my face and his smile softens. “Man, that guy never shut up about you. Made me want to be a better dad to my kid when I got home.”
“It got annoying how much he talked about you,” Mikhail says. “No offense.”
I laugh, but tears threaten to spill out again. “None taken.”
Uncle Bill puts his arm around me, and I lean into it. It feels like scaffolding around a building about to collapse—holding me up when I didn’t think I could stand anymore.
Aunt Amy joins us with my cousins and a few of the other prisoners. Great Aunt Marla comes around to my other side and puts a hand on my back.
“Tell us your favorite memory with him,” Aunt Marla says.
“You already tell ‘em about the karaoke?” the oldest of the men here says in a thick Brooklyn accent. He reaches a hand out to mine. “I’m Joey. I was your dad’s cellmate ‘bout eight years ago.”
“Not yet we haven’t,” Mike says. “Tell ‘em, Joe.”
“Your dad got a job cleaning offices and saved up for an MP3 player from commissary.” Joey smiles. “He was crazy about music. He said it was a thing you two had, right?”
I nod, though my chest is starting to shake from emotion.
“He said he was running out of songs to send his Gracie Lou and he started getting recommendations from the rest of us. But he had to pay for them.”
Mike laughs. “He had to sing them during count time if he wanted us to share. Off key, too.”
