Blood and Sympathy (2 page)

January was just about behind us, and the winter
weather wasn't close to giving up without a fight. I pulled the wool coat tightly
around me and put my shoes on as soon as I climbed into the passenger seat of the
vintage car.

"It's beyond me how you haven't caught
pneumonia yet," she grumbled, and put the car in gear before speeding down
the rutted lane.

"It's beyond me how you haven't wrapped this
thing around a tree with the way you drive." I pointed over my shoulder.
"I think you missed a pothole, better go back."

"I would if we had any time to spare."

The organ music could be heard from the parking
lot as I slammed the car door and walked around to meet Olivia.

"See? Plenty of time. You worry too
much," I muttered under my breath.

"I wasn't worried. Besides, I'm not the one
you'd have to answer to if we weren't on time. Daddy just gets embarrassed when
his daughters are the last two members of the congregation to walk through the
doors every Sunday morning."

"You could have gone on ahead without
me," I said, yawning. "Everyone knows you're the
good
daughter.
They expect this from me. But you? No, not Miss Perfect."

We'd had this same conversation countless times.
Eleven months separated us and most people thought we were twins. Those same
people probably wondered how one child was so perfect, and the other was so not.

I blamed fate. The cards had been stacked against
me from the day I came kicking and screaming into this world. My mother died
giving me life, and I always figured that was why our dad liked Olivia more
than me.

Each week, the back pew was left empty for us.
We'd never been early, we'd never even been on time, but we always showed up,
and that was all that mattered if you asked me. I slid across the smooth solid
oak bench and Olivia scooted in beside me.

I slouched into a more relaxed position and
glanced sideways at her. "Wake me up when it's over."

She gave me a steely-eyed glare. "Don't you
even think about it, Claire."

The music stopped and people shifted restlessly
while waiting for the services to begin. Dad's chosen topic for the day was the
tabula rasa--the theory that people are born like a blank slate, and that
all their knowledge comes from life experiences. I wondered if it was my
imagination--or guilty conscience--that made me feel as though his eyes lingered
on me a little longer than usual as he preached about good and evil. His rich
baritone voice made me want to sink lower in my seat.

"When it comes to the aspects of whether man
is born evil or whether society makes him that way, I tend to favor the nurture
side of the nature versus nurture debate." He paused to let his words sink
in.

My hands were folded in my lap, and I picked at my
chipped nail polish. Olivia nudged me with her elbow. "Stop."

"It's not up to you or me to condemn a man
for his sins. That's not our job. I try to give a person the benefit of the doubt
because I want to believe that good can indeed overcome evil. With a little
patience, understanding, and forgiveness, I think almost everyone has
redeemable qualities. Judge not lest ye be judged."

Mrs. Rummels, with her blue-tinted hair, took a
seat in front of the massive pipe organ which was only slightly older than she
was. I lip-synched along with the hymn, letting Dad's words settle into the recesses
of my brain.

"Before you all stampede out of here today,
my daughter Olivia has an announcement to make. It's no coincidence that I chose
the topic of good versus evil and the power of forgiveness for today's
sermon," he said, his eyes skimming over the crowd, landing on my sister.
"Come on up, Olivia."

I stared as she made her way to the front of the
church. She hated being the center of attention. I could almost see the sweat
pooling beneath her arms.

"Thank you, Daddy. I promise I won't keep
y'all any longer than necessary." She chuckled nervously. "I've been
asked by my professor to head up the correspondence program with a few of the
inmates at West Tennessee Juvenile Detention Center. If you're interested in
having a WTJDC pen pal, or have any questions about it, let me know. The
program has been very successful in the past."

Afterward, as people filed out of the church the
sub-freezing temperatures made milling around outside uncomfortable. I was
anxious to get home and take a shower since I smelled like rancid cherries. Dad
caught up with us as we were walking across the parking lot.

"We've been invited to Jeb's for lunch,"
he said. Lunch at Jeb's house was an after-church standing invitation, and if Dad
said we were going, it wasn't optional.

"Claire and I'd love to join you, Daddy.
We'll meet you there." Olivia accepted graciously for the both of us while
I wondered if I could jog home without turning into a block of ice. I pasted on
a fake smile, hoping it didn't resemble a scowl, knowing my ass would be grass
as soon as Jeb brought up the car in the ditch incident. Dad nodded at Olivia
and headed toward his car.

"We'd love to join you, Daddy," I mocked
with my best Olivia Copeland imitation as I slid into the passenger seat and
fastened my seatbelt.

"I don't sound like that."

"Yeah, you kind of do."

"It won't kill you to go," she said,
starting the car and revving the engine.

"Don't blame me when your nose hairs start to
singe from my lack of hygiene." I folded my arms across my chest and
turned up the radio to avoid further conversation.

She turned it back down. "Don't you want to
know the name of your pen pal?"

I peered sideways at her. "My what? The hell
are you talking about?"

"The WTJDC pen pal program," she said.
"Would you like to know who you're going to be writing to?"

"I'm not writing to some criminal. What if
when he gets out he wants to meet me? Then what? In case you've forgotten, West
Tennessee Juvie isn't that far from Hensteeth. God, Olivia. I'm not
that
desperate for friends. And I'm not looking for a boyfriend," I said. I
needed a cigarette.

"Your new pen pal is Braden Sayer," she
said, as though I hadn't just told her no.

Braden
Sayer

Class was almost over with for the day and Alex was on a
tangent about some pen pal program. He encouraged us to put our names on a list
to receive letters from people willing to write to us.

Alex is one of the few teachers I've trusted during the four
years and six months I've been incarcerated in
this hellhole
. He has always been real
big on getting us to set goals, and says having something to reach for gives us
a sense of purpose in our otherwise fucked-up existence. It's supposed to help
keep us from reentering the system once we've been released.

The odds are stacked against everyone in here, and a lot of
these kids will wind up right back on the inside as repeat or habitual
offenders. I think Alex truly gives a shit; he acts like he wants to help us
all beat the odds. There are some here who are broken beyond repair, incapable
of anything other than a life of crime. Some of it petty stuff, some of it
unimaginable.

A few of the boys have vowed that once they're free, they'll
never be back. Others consider it their only way of life--they don't know
anything different. Those are the ones who don't have a snowball's chance in
hell of making it on the outside. They might not reenter
West Tennessee
Juvenile Detention Center
, only because they'll age out of the system, but they'll wind up in
some hellhole a million times worse than this place.

Not gonna bullshit you, I'd die before they'll ever put me
inside these cold, cinderblock walls again. I've been here since I was twelve
years old. My only view has been the guard towers, and a fifteen foot high
razor wire fence surrounding the yard. I've got less than a year to go and then
I'm out of here for good.

The buzzer sounded, letting us know Social Studies was over.
I had one more afternoon class, woodshop, before the school day ended for
another week. I stood to leave and I heard Alex call my name.

"Braden, wait up." I stopped walking and waited for
him. "You're going to put your name on the pen pal list, right?"

"I hadn't planned on it," I told him truthfully.

"I think you should. Reentering society can be difficult
for someone who's been inside for as long as you have, Braden."

"Are you telling me I
have
to?" I quirked an
eyebrow and waited for him to explain why he thought I should participate in
something so lame.

A weary smile crept across his life-lined face. "No, not
at all. It's up to you. I just think it might be a good idea. My two cents
worth of advice. You can take it or leave it."

What the hell, why not? Just because I agreed to do it didn't
mean anyone would write to me and it sure as shit didn't mean I had to write
them back. "Yeah, okay. Sign me up." I sighed and turned to go.

His face lit up like a kid getting a pony for Christmas.
"I think you're making the right decision."

"We'll see. If I don't like it, I don't have to keep
doing it, right? I don't know what I'd have to say to anyone that wouldn't put
them to sleep. Not like I lead an exciting life." I bet after a couple
letters about a day in the life of Braden Sayer, I'd disappear off their
Christmas card list.

"You're free to stop the program anytime, of course.
Just give it a chance and don't quit before you get started." He leaned
against the doorframe, eyeing me. "It'll give you some outside contact
other than your uncle. Someone closer to your own age. It'll help make your
transition back into society a little more seamless and not such a culture shock."

"I'm moving back to Hensteeth, Tennessee. I somehow
doubt Hensteeth has changed that much since I was twelve years old," I
said, shifting my textbook in my arms restlessly.

"Maybe, maybe not." He shrugged. "I still
think it's a good idea."

I ran my hand over the thick stubble on top of my head and
nodded. "So, what? I just wait for someone to write to me, is that how
this works?"

"That's all there is to it," he said. He stepped
into the hallway and locked his classroom door before walking beside me on the
way to the woodworking shop. "Have a good weekend, Braden. I'll see you
Monday."

Every free minute I had was spent in the shop and every penny
Uncle Jeb sent was used to buy wood. About a year or so ago, I began making
these little music boxes. They were small enough to fit in the palm of my hand,
so it didn't take a lot of wood. If I was lucky, I got by using scraps of beech
wood or pine that was leftover from other projects. The shop teacher, Mr.
Collins, tricked me into selling them.

I gave him one to look at, one I was particularly proud of,
and he put it in the inmate's gift shop. I had no idea he'd done that until he
handed me a receipt for a deposit into the commissary in my name. At first, I
was kind of pissed at him for going behind my back and doing that, but I guess
it all worked out for the best. It meant I didn't have to depend on my uncle
for money anymore.

Uncle Jeb visited me at
WTJDC
on the first Sunday of every
month. One Sunday, he didn't show up. I was pissed. I figured, like every other
adult in my life, he'd given up on me. I felt like a real asshole when I
learned that my Aunt Carolyn had suffered a massive coronary that morning right
before church while hanging laundry on the clothesline to dry.

Uncle Jeb was the only relative I had left. After
the fire that killed our stepdad, Mama disowned Brogan and me. She swallowed a
handful of sleeping pills one night and died in her sleep shortly after my
brother and I were locked up.

Maybe I sound cold toward her, but I'm not. She
loved us, but after our real dad had left, she changed. She was sad most of the
time, and took meds for depression for as long as I could remember. Every week,
back before my life turned to complete shit, Mama dressed Brogan and me in our
Sunday's finest and dragged us off to church. Sitting through one of Reverend
Copeland's sermons was tolerable only because I got a chance to watch his lovely
dark haired daughters.

The girls were close to the same age as Brogan and
me, and they sat quietly in the front pew, week in, week out. I remembered
thinking they were twins until the bold one made it clear to me that she was
younger by eleven months. Sometimes, after church, they'd join us for Sunday
dinner at my Aunt and Uncle's.

The older girl, Olivia, was quiet and I could tell
she was the apple of her daddy's eye. The younger one, Claire, was the polar
opposite of her sister. She was mean, and mouthy, and often got warning glances
from the reverend. I didn't know it then, but I liked Claire the best. I used
to wonder how my life would have turned out if I had grown up in Hensteeth
instead of growing up behind bars. It didn't matter, I couldn't turn back time,
and a girl pretty as Claire Copeland wouldn't ever want anything to do with
someone like me.

Claire Copeland

"Here," Olivia said, handing me a sheet
of paper.

"What's this?" I asked. I scanned the
page and remembered our conversation from yesterday about the pen pal program.
It was a list of do's and don'ts for writing to inmates. I narrowed my eyes at
her. "I told you, I'm not writing to a prisoner."

"Claire, come on. Do it for me?"

"No."

"Please? You owe me, you know." She had
her hands on her hips. I hated when she did that because it meant she was about
to resort to blackmail if I didn't agree to whatever she wanted.