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26
SUTTON
TEN MONTHS LATER
Darwin Correctional Institute is in the middle of nowhere. It’s an ominous, hulking structure that’s pretty much exactly what I pictured a prison looking like.
A chain-link fence with a line of barbed wire strung above it hints at what a series of bold red signs proclaim:No trespassing. All activities monitored by video surveillance. Violators will be prosecuted.
The cement outside the door markedVisitors’ Entranceis cracked in two spots. A tiny tuft of weeds has emerged in one spot—a glimpse of life and perseverance in a place that feels bereft and helpless.
“Shocked there’s no welcome mat,” I comment.
Teddy manages a small smile, but it slips away quickly. He grew increasingly quiet and somber as the scenery slowly gave way to desolation on the long drive here.
The last time he saw his father was when he was fourteen—twelve years ago—right before he left for Wisconsin to live with his grandmother. Whatever was said then, it led to Teddy choosing not to return for more than a decade.
To say we’re both nervous about this visit is what I would categorize as amassive understatement.
Hinges squeak as Teddy opens the door and gestures for me to walk inside first. Cool, stale air greets me. It feels good after the heat and humidity saturating the air outside, but it also smells like no one has cracked a window open in here since Teddy’s last visit.
The visitors’ entrance is just as bland as the exterior of the building. Walls painted a shade somewhere between white and gray. Scuffed linoleum floors. A wall of lockers and a row of uncomfortable-looking folding chairs.
We sign in and empty our pockets, depositing most of our belongings into a locker before heading through the airport-level security and into a room that reminds me a lot of a cafeteria. One of the guards leads us over to an empty table.
Teddy’s knee bounces under the table as we watch other prisoners enter the room and meet with their families. I grab his palm and squeeze.
I’ve never seen a photo of Teddy’s father before. But as soon as I see Harry Owens through the Plexiglas window that separates this room from the hallway, I know exactly who he is.
Teddy looks a lot like him, not only in physical appearance, but also in mannerisms. Harry looks around the room he’s entering the same way I’ve seen Teddy survey his surroundings, like he’s open to what the world has to offer and also bracing for the worst.
When Harry spots Teddy, he freezes. The uniformed guard escorting him has to prod him forward in our direction.
Under the table, Teddy’s hand tightens around mine. We watch silently as Harry approaches. I pictured Teddy’s father as older and slightly decrepit, worn from years behind bars.
I’m taken aback by the full head of thick hair and the muscular frame. Harry’s skin is pale, especially under the glare of fluorescent lights, but his hair and beard are neatly trimmed, and he’s surrounded by an air of vigor that would be striking anywhere but feels especially out of place here.
I watch the confidence dissipate slowly as he nears, slipping away like a breeze brushing away smoke. His steps turn unsure.
Harry slips into the seat across from us, and the guard leaves to escort the next inmate.
Silence hangs in an invisible barrier.
Teddy speaks first. “Hi, Dad.”
“It’s been a long time, son.” Harry’s voice is deeper than I expected, a rumble that starts slow and never picks up the pace. “Twelve years.”
Teddy nods. “How’ve you been?”
Harry chuckles. “I’ve made my peace in this place.”
“You’ve only got a year left, Dad.”
“Nice of you to keep track, son.” There’s no anger in the words, just wry acceptance.
“I’m sorry I haven’t visited. I meant to. It just—”
“It’s fine, Teddy. This isn’t the sort of place a son should have to visit just to see his old man.”
