Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
The woman turned my way, smiling with a wink. His eyes followed, then he said, “It’s our anniversary. Ain’t she a looker? I’m a lucky man.” She swatted the air on a giggle. I asked how long they’d been married.
71 YEARS. Can you even imagine? 71 years with someone! Well, long story shorter, I asked if I could buy them a slice of pie to celebrate and after some refusal, they agreed—on one condition, that I would have a slice with them and a cup of coffee, and they would tell me their story.
God, I would have bought them a hundred pieces of pie. They told me they met right there where Giley’s is now, 72 years ago when it was just a farmer’s vegetable stand. The husband worked on the farm as a laborer. He was there unloading a truck when her family stopped to buy a watermelon for Sunday supper.
He described the lace and sky-blue silk dress she was wearing that day with such detail tears came to my eyes. Her family was rich. He was a dirt-poor orphan. But that didn’t stop them. From their first look, they said they were in love.
Her parents did everything they could to keep them apart, including having him arrested on some false charges, but a year after they met, they ran away and got married. Everyone said it wouldn’t last.
Never bet against true love, I guess.
I hope you are doing well. Sorry about the sappy letter, I just wanted to share it with you for whatever reason. Hope to hear from you soon. I look forward to your letters more than I ever thought I would.
Your pen pal,
Daphne
* * *
I spent the morning in my cell re-reading her letters, knowing today would be a turning point for me. The one about the old couple is my favorite and I could recite it from memory.
You’d think the relief of finally being out would have me wanting to cut loose in some strip club or find the closest bar and try to drink away the last four years. Instead, I take a deep breath, enjoying the scent of the free air. It’s different. Even when I was outside in the yard at the prison, the air was sour.
Heavy.
This? This is just the opposite. Fresh and new like anything is possible.
I hear the metal on metal clank of the prison gates latching shut behind me as I step into the parking lot in the winter sunshine and a shiver races through me.
James waves me over to his truck. I cherish every breath. I make a silent vow that things will be different.
I’m not going to fuck up this opportunity. Her letters made me want to be better. This is my chance.
* * *
James hasn’t stopped talking since I got in the truck, but I don’t care. I’m so fucking preoccupied. I keep bouncing my leg up and down. Clenching and unclenching my fists and letting out these old-man sort of grunting sighs, trying to pretending I’m listening.
Today, I’m going to meet the woman that’s been dominating my every waking and sleeping thought for a year. There’s not a fucking thing that could ruin my mojo right now.
James keeps talking. He and I are unlikely friends. He got a shit deal from a shit friend who after a night out for beers, the so-called friend stuffed a bag full of rock and street fentanyl under the James’s driver’s seat when they got pulled over for expired plates. James had no fucking idea what was going on, but his exasperation was taken as resistance and the situation turned rotten from there.
The so-called friend threw James under every bus he could. Got himself a suspended sentence, while James, who enjoys his beer no doubt but has never so much as taken a hit from a blunt, got hard time.
Times have changed since I went in. We pass a billboard with a pot leaf and I’m reminded that now, weed is full on legal. Times change and keep changing, whether or not you’re there to see it.
Two hours later, I’m ready to jump out of my skin when we finally pull into a driveway in an ordinary—if not a little rundown--blue collar sort of residential area. James finally takes a breath, silent for the first time since we started driving as he shuts off the 1990-something Chevy pickup.
I look at the wood-framed old Craftsman-style house. It’s painted a cheerful yellow, a few unfinished boards waiting for matching paint from what looks like a repair to some rotting wood over the front porch. A blue plastic snow shovel leans against a broken handrail along the stairs next to a half-empty bag of rock salt.
“Dad’s a great mechanic, not as much a carpenter.” James nods toward the house.
“I’ll help.” Two words is all I can manage as I straighten up in the passenger seat. The fear of what could happen in the next few minutes is damned near strangling me.