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I’ve got it! Grandfather
yells from the kitchen.
I peek at the caller ID.
NV St Prsn—Nevada
State Prison. The collect
calls from Trey come once
in a while. Usually, to listen
to Grandfather’s raves,
when his prison account
needs a cash recharge.
Little SOB wants me
to pay for his cigarettes
and soap? Does he think
I’m made of money?
Still, he always sends it.
Three times convicted
felon or not, Trey will
always be his son. His son.
And my convict father.
I SLIP QUIETLY
Along the linoleum. Grandfather
does not appreciate me listening in.
But for some reason, my radar
is blipping. There’s something
different about this call. Maybe
it’s the tone of Grandfather’s voice
tipping me off. It’s not exactly
hard to hear him. He’s yelling.
But despite the high volume, a tremor
makes him sound downright old.
