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But there were no jokes as I sat at a booth separate from the general visitation area. There were round tables where families sat and where pairs conversed with each other, but my father wasn’t allowed that. Instead, when I sat on the u
ncomfortable plastic chair across from him, there was a thick pane of plexiglass separating us from each other.
I picked up the receiver on my side of the glass, and he did the same.
For a long time, we were silent.
He looked tired. Deep bags hung under his eyes, like he hadn’t been sleeping properly. His hair, usually slick and styled to perfection, not a single strand out of place, looked lackluster without his usual pomades and products. Even his skin seemed sallow, like he wasn’t going outside regularly. Now that I thought about it, did men in prison get to go outside? I figured they must, but I didn’t know that for sure. Until this year, it never would’ve occurred to me to wonder.
I made a soft noise. The silence was growing uncomfortable, but I couldn’t speak around the sudden lump in my throat. It broke my heart to see my dad like this, more than I ever could’ve imagined. I wasn’t the only one who had changed so much in the relatively short amount of time he’d been in prison.
“Hi, Dad. It’s good to see you.”
“You as well. You look… different.”
Self consciously, I looked down. Dad had a way of saying simple, mundane things and filling them with heavy meaning—and that had definitely been a loaded statement. His scrutinizing gaze continued to take me in as I shifted on the hard seat. This morning, I’d put on a pair of ripped jeans, thinking those would be better than the cutoff shorts I’d made, along with a shirt that was less cropped than most of my others. Compared to what I wore to school most of the time, this outfit was conservative, but it was nothing like what my father was used to seeing me in.
I glanced up, straightening my spine a little.
“You look different too.”
He shifted. I couldn’t get a read on him, and it was a strange feeling. I could almost always read my father—or at least, I’d thought I could. Usually, I didn’t have to guess whether he was happy or angry about something, confused, annoyed, or disappointed. I wondered if it was because he was in prison, out of his element. It felt like I was sitting across from a stranger. Then again, considering what I’d learned since he’d been brought here, maybe that wasn’t so far off. How well had I ever really known my father?
I didn’t want to talk about that right now though.
“How’ve you been, Dad?” I asked instead, attempting to strike up a normal conversation. Well, as normal as one could have in prison.
“Food is terrible,” he answered, gazing at me through the glass as he held the phone to his ear. God, this is all so awkward. “Sleep is terrible. I’m alive. Waiting for this damn sham of a trial to be over.”
I nodded. There was a pause in the conversation before he continued on.
“How are you? Studies going well? Your mother?”
There was a momentary pause as I tried to formulate an answer. “How are you” was such a simple question, but given the state of my life right now, it was hard to think of what to say. What the hell was I supposed to tell him?
Oh, I’m great, Dad. I’m being shared between three criminal boys that I’m drawn to in a way that scares me, and Mom never leaves the house unless she’s going off someplace that she doesn’t talk to me about.
“Good. School is good. I have some friends. Mom is taking things in stride.”
What a sanitized answer.
Dad nodded though, as if it were a satisfying enough response. I wondered what a regular conversation between a normal father and daughter would be in this situation. And then I wondered if there even was such a thing.
“How long do you think you’ll still be in here?” I asked, deciding to springboard off something he said earlier. “You said that… the trial was a sham?” What would make him think that?
He waved his hand.
“Not much longer. Not if my lawyer does his job. Someone planted evidence in my office, I’m sure of it. Fool ass criminals…”
He muttered the last part, shaking his head.
My thoughts went back to the Lost Boys—their pasts, their accusations, and the accusations of almost every student in Slateview High against my father.
I didn’t know if I should bring any of that up on this visit. I was desperate to know how much of what I’d learned from the Lost Boys and other kids was true, how much of it was just bitter gossip, and how much of it was rumor and speculation. But a part of me knew that the answers—the real, unvarnished truth—probably wouldn’t be found by talking to my father. I’d lived with him my whole life and had only just learned of his possible underhanded dealings. He either wouldn’t admit or didn’t believe that he’d done anything wrong.
And in all honesty, it was entirely possible that he could’ve done some shitty things and still been completely within the law. His guilt or innocence as far as a jury was concerned was a separate issue from the question of whether he’d built his empire by taking advantage of people who couldn’t defend themselves.
I allowed our conversation to meander, drifting from one boring topic to another like a slow-moving stream until our allotted time was up. It never got less awkward, and although I’d been glad to see my father in person, I was just as glad to leave.
