“You see anything strange when you left? Anyone hanging around?”
“No. But I wasn’t looking.”
“Anyone here when you locked up?”
I nod toward the cereal corner. “Rodney.” There’s a two-man system in place for closing time; no one can be alone to do it, just in case. There are video cameras located on each side of the building and one at the only entrance to the parking lot, but we all know there’s no money to keep them turned on. That’s why I know Lyla doesn’t know Rodney left with everybody else that day instead of waiting with me like he was supposed to.
She shakes her head. “Two of the cameras were broken,” she says. “I just noticed yesterday. The one in the parking lot, and the one by the back door. I don’t know if it’s just kids throwing rocks, or worse. I can’t afford too much more of this.”
Unfortunately, the Food Bank is a popular target for vandals. Their favorite activity is ruining the food—leaving the freezers open over night so everything melts and meats spoil, but occasionally they’ll steal anything worth taking, which isn’t much. Lyla’s lost two laptops and a pair of shoes. The last time was four months ago, just before Thanksgiving. I’d left an anonymous cash donation to cover the cost of some new turkey. Lyla cried.
“All right,” she says, glancing at her watch. “You taking off now?”
“Five minutes.”
She’s already walking away. “See you next week.”
I VISIT MY FATHER ON the last Saturday of each month. He’s at Wakeman Penitentiary, a low security white-collar prison two hours north of the city. Between Wakeman and Holden there’s nothing but farmland, acres of corn and potatoes, cherry and apple orchards, the occasional herd of cows or sheep, and the constant company of manure.
The farther you drive the more the roads narrow, until three lanes turn into two, into one, into an occasionally-paved route to a place no one really wants to go anyway. If you didn’t know what Wakeman was, you could mistake it for a holistic resort or a treatment center of some type. It’s a single-level sprawling structure in white stucco. The sign at the gate reads Wakeman in large letters, penitentiary printed in much smaller font beneath it, like a whisper.
A year after my father’s arrest, a journalist did an exposé on the prison, detailing how much better the facilities are here than at most inner city schools. Hell, most schools in general. The inmates tend the yards and gardens, dormant at this time of year, the grass yellow and patchy. They have reading groups and meditation, and my dad mentioned that one of the guys was a former inspirational speaker who gives a short presentation every Wednesday after movie night.
I show my ID at the gate and the guard waves me through. It’s just a formality; they know me. Like most people, they knew my reputation before I ever showed up.
I park in the half-empty visitors lot and take my time approaching the building. It’s an uncharacteristically warm day for the end of February in upstate New York, the late-afternoon sky blue and cloudless, the sun still bright as it begins its descent. I’m wearing a long-sleeve black shirt with a black skirt and combat boots. I’d added a pair of black tights since I was coming to prison, and I carry my denim jacket under my arm. I take one last deep breath before I pull open the door.
Wakeman smells like recycled air and plastic and reheated food. Despite the bright white walls, cheap artwork, and pleasant enough guards, it feels sad. Which, I suppose, is how a prison should feel.
I sign in at the guard desk, and, as he does every month, Officer Hilroy waves me through a metal detector and does his perfunctory swipe with a wand to check for weapons or other forbidden materials. The pockets of my coat are empty except for my license, a five dollar bill, and a tube of lip gloss, all of which I’m allowed to keep. Having passed inspection, Hilroy leads me down the long hall to the visitation room, his thick body shifting from side to side with each step.
“How’re things?” he asks, like I might say they’re going great. I’d really rather not talk to anyone, but there were different guards when I first started visiting, and they treated me much worse than Hilroy, all sneers and eye rolls and stupid double entendres. Hilroy treats me like I’m human.
“Okay. You?”
“Not too bad. Strange weather today.”
“Global warming, right?”
He swipes his badge over a sensor, and the metal doors open to the visitation room. “Polar bears are going extinct.”
I thank him as I slip inside. There are a dozen people already here, most of whom I recognize from previous visits. I find a spot that leaves a vacant table on each side, not that anybody cares where I sit. The hum of a vending machine muffles enough of the conversation to make it feel private, while the guard stationed in the corner reminds everyone that there is no such thing as privacy.
I reapply my lip gloss and wait. After a couple of minutes, the heavy green door buzzes open and my dad strolls in, spotting me and grinning widely. Before his arrest, he’d worn suits and ties every day. On the rare occasion he got home early enough to watch TV, he’d wear his suit, loosening the tie just a little. Even now, wearing Wakeman’s standard-issue mustard yellow jumpsuit and white Velcro sneakers, he’s got that same business-like air. Like we’re here to make a deal, not small talk. To discuss a merger, not if I put more money in his commissary account since he wants to stock up on the chicken ramen.
Eleven months after he was arrested, and after a short but spectacular trial, Kimball Carlisle, billionaire investor, was convicted and sentenced to forty years for his role in one of the largest American embezzlement scandals in history. “Hi, dad,” I say.
“Reeses Pieces,” he says, folding me into a hug. My mom told me he’d given me the nickname the day I was born. He’d hated “Reese,” wanted something sweet and girly, but my mother had her heart set on it, and he loved her, so I was Reese Charlotte Carlisle. Still am, technically.
The guard clears her throat and we break apart, sitting opposite each other on orange chairs, folding our arms on the sticky tabletop.
“You look... dark,” he says. He says this every time. “You’re like a shadow of yourself.” He gestures as he says it, taking in my straight black hair, my pale, makeup-free skin. I used to care a lot more about what I looked like because I wanted people to notice me. Now I don’t.
“You look fine,” I say. He looks like himself, but smaller. He’d had personal trainers and people who used to come to our penthouse once a month to trim his hair, buff his fingernails, buy him new suits. Without their help, he’s withered a little, his skin less tan, his hair more gray, his clothes more...yellow.
“How’s life?” he asks. Before the arrest he’d ask me the same question, normally while we shared dinner in his office. Off the top of my head I could name two dozen people who would have killed for that opportunity. They’re not lining up to sit with him now.
“Fine. Want something from the vending machine?”
“Whatever you like.”
I retrieve the bill from my coat pocket and cross the room to buy a packet of crackers and cheese and some dill pickle chips. I return and we eat in silence. He uses the little red stick to smear cheese product on cracker product and passes it to me. He’s the one in prison, but he’s still my dad. When people blame me for visiting him, that’s all I can think. My mother’s dead. My brother’s dead. Who else is there?