Brawler.
Vandal.
Thief.
Accused murderer.
Death row inmate.
I’m all these things. All except murderer. That’s what I’m in for, why I’m on death row, and it’s the only thing I haven’t done.
The guard, Adams, opens my tiny cell and puts me in a belly-chain and shackles. “Move it. I don’t have all day,” he says as he gives me a shove. He is short and vengeful, wielding the power of his shield, his club, his gun.
I vow not to react. It never ends well when I do.
“Yes, Sir.” I grit my teeth and shuffle along. We enter the non-contact visitor area.
“Sit.”
I sit in the hard plastic chair facing a glass partition and Adams bends over to remove the belly chain, freeing my wrists. I feel his breath on the back of my neck as he chats me up.
“Gonna talk to your sweet young thing, are you?”
I ignore him. He means nothing to me.
“Yeah, you are. Well, you might as well say goodbye to her while you’re at it.”
I detect a note of glee in his voice. This gives me pause.
“I know things,” he whispers. “It’s back to San Quentin for you, buddy. Day after tomorrow you have a date with the needle. Oh, and I volunteered for transport duty. Can’t wait to see the light go outta your eyes.”
I feel a cold dread rush through my veins, as if already feeling the push of the needle. Now? Already? I struggle for composure, to not let him see. I don’t want to give him an excuse to deny my visiting privileges. Especially not now. I force each muscle in my shoulders and back to relax.
Then I see her and for a moment forget all about that asshole and his cruel streak.
Maria.
She breezes in as if riding on a sunbeam. That’s how it looks, with her pretty yellow dress and radiant smile.
The smile is for me. I feel an answering one of my own.
She sits down and puts her ever-present sketchbook on the narrow counter. She picks up the phone from her side, waits till I pick up mine before putting her other hand up against the glass.
I put my hand up against hers, on my side of the cold hard glass. She is so tiny and my hand dwarfs hers.
“Mi amor,” I hear her say through the phone.
“Mi sol,” I respond. My sun. She is my own private sun. I bask in her warmth.
“Guess what day it is?” She tips her head at my blank look and gives me a knowing smile. “It’s our anniversary.”
Anniversary? So soon? I think back on the day we met, here in this very room, courtesy of my sister. Both are graphic designers, working for the same company. I’m not sure why my sister brought her in that day, but I’m thankful she did. My life now has meaning. Purpose.
I struggle for the words, but expressing it is difficult. And should I tell her now about the upcoming transfer and subsequent execution? Indecision weighs heavy.
Maria notices. A tiny crease mars her forehead. She clears the look from her face, but the mark stays for a bit. When did she get that wrinkle? Was it from worrying over me? No one has ever worried about me before. I feel a rush of joy, but a pang of sorrow follows close behind. I don’t want her to worry. I only want her to be happy. Carefree.
“Talk to me,” she demands. “Something is wrong. I can tell.”
I never argue with Maria. She is my heart. But I slant a furtive glance where Adams is leaning against the wall. He isn’t even bothering to conceal the interest in our conversation. I turn back to Maria and say, “Oh, it’s nothing. Got burned on one of the ovens yesterday.” I lift a forearm to display an ugly red welt. “It hurts a bit, that’s all.”
Yeah, I make bread. A lot of bread. The facility is known for its bakery, and I’m the best of the bakers here. The regular stuff gets sent to various facilities. Then there’s my special recipe. MacBride’s bread. Guards frequently trade privileges for a couple loaves of ‘MacBread’.
“Oh, poor baby! I wish I could kiss it and make it better.”
As do I. Before I can go down that particular road, however, I change the subject.
“Hey, I see you brought your sketchbook. Why don’t you show me your newest drawings? You started them last week, right? When are they due to the client?”
She pauses for a brief moment, unsure. But she’s fast, my Maria. “I don’t think they’re needed for a couple of months. I wanted to get a head start, though. Everything needs to be perfect.”
Maria grabs the sketchbook, flips through to the back and finds her latest drawing. She holds it up and flattens it to the glass pane so I can see.
“What do you think? It’s for a client called Emerge. See the logo on the truck? The Red Phoenix? I designed that.”
“Maria, you’ve outdone yourself. I love the logo.” I tap the glass and point out another portion of the drawing, a redheaded woodpecker clinging to the trunk of a gnarled oak. “Fabulous detail on the bird, too,” I say. “What time of the year is this? It looks like… autumn, maybe? I gesture at the foliage growing at the sides of a two-lane country road. Dried grasses, stalks with no flowers.
“Yes, I was shooting for fall. Do you think it looks all right?”
I move up close to the glass and squint at the drawing. “I’m not sure. I mean, it looks great – all your drawings do. I just think I would go for a more… summertime look. Green grass, some flowers in bloom, maybe?” I wait for that to sink in for a moment. “Just a thought. Didn’t you tell me last week that the clients were in a big hurry and needed it this week? Like maybe day after tomorrow? Am I wrong?”
“You know, you’re right. Ohmigod! How could I have forgotten that?” Her face takes on a determined, set look. “I’ll make the changes and contact the client. Thanks, Babe. You just saved my butt!”
My breath catches in my throat and I swallow hard.
“We make a good team, you and I,” I tell her.
Behind me, Adams gives a snort. Yeah, he’s listening. I knew he was. That’s why Maria and I use this form of communication. The sketchbook. The clues.
“Do we ever!” Maria echoes my sentiment, face shining with excitement.
She only sees the silver lining in our little plan. Never the cloud. My Maria is a sunny person. She doesn’t know the deep underbelly of the human condition and all the truly shitty things that can, and do, happen. I hope she never has to find out.
Maria taps on the glass to distract me. I smile and give her my full attention. We chat about the rest of the sketch details.
All too soon, the visit is over. We share one last, longing look as Adams rushes to put the cuffs back on my hands and drags me away.
“Back to solitary, asshole,” he says.
I say nothing.
My stint in the bakery typically involves 12-hour shifts. I work an additional six the next day, making sure everything is perfect. The regular quota is finished early, and I make an additional eight dozen loaves of my special MacBread. I wrap them up and stash them in different locations for my contacts.
That’s it. That’s all I can do.
The next morning, I put my plan into action. My request to the first contact is to spend time in the chapel. They know I’m scheduled for transport later to San Quentin, so the request doesn’t seem unusual.
This is followed by a request to go to the infirmary to get a salve for my burn. Granted.
From there I leapfrog my way through my contacts until I find myself at the loading area, where the bread is loaded onto box trucks. This last contact, the driver, is a friend of mine. He hurries me onto his bread truck. I wedge myself in a small hole between pallets of freshly baked bread. I smell yeast and salt and butter.
My heart pounds. I close my eyes and pray they won’t check my whereabouts or the trucks too closely.
Finally, I hear the truck start and with a slight jolt we’re on our way.
No shouts. No sirens. My body hurts from being so tense. I try to relax by taking deep breaths, like they showed me in meditation class. It doesn’t work. Fuck it. I’ll either get away or I won’t. If I don’t get away, I want it to happen before I get to Maria. They can take me out as I make my bid for freedom, instead of going back to San Quentin to dance with the needle in a room surrounded by people looking on, like I’m some sort of animal on display in the zoo.
But nothing happens, and soon we stop. I can only hope we’re at the meeting place. The door slowly rolls up. I try to peek between the pallets, resisting the urge to go all-out Hulk and bust out from the bread.
I give a sigh of relief as the gnarled oak tree from Maria’s picture becomes visible.
I scramble to get out of my hidey-hole without trashing the loaves of bread. My friend helps and soon I’m standing outside in the fresh air.
“You made it,” he says as he sticks out his hand in farewell. “Gotta run before they notice I’m not moving. The glories of technology, yanno. Now get the fuck outta here.”
I grasp his hand. “There are no words, man.”
“None needed.” He extricates his hand and makes a beeline for his truck. Soon he’s speeding off and I look around to get my bearings.
Where would she be? Obviously not out in the open. I close my eyes and try to remember every detail of the picture. Wait. There was something red at the top of the page beyond the oak. That would make it toward the ridge. That’s right, there was a phoenix matching the logo on the drawn truck, only this one soared high into the clouds.
Phoenix rising. That was me she’d drawn.
I flat-out run and top the ridge. I stop and stare.
Maria. She’s leaning against a battered jeep, one booted foot on the bumper.
I fly down the slope and stop in front of her, chest heaving. I fist my hands to stop their shaking.
Her eyes well with tears and her lower lip trembles.
Then she smiles.
There it is. Mi sol. My sun.
I take a deep breath, unclench my fists and reach out a hand. She reaches out at the same time, and our palms touch.
This time there’s no glass.
We smile, and I touch her cheek, wiping away the tears streaming down her face. She launches herself at me and I laugh, lifting her high before clutching her to my chest.
She mumbles something and I pull away. “What?”
“I said, we should go.”
“Okay. Go where?” I hadn’t really gotten beyond the first part of the plan.
“Don’t worry. I got you covered.” She grins at me and climbs in the driver’s side. “Well, get in. What, you waiting for, a formal invitation?”
I hop in the jeep, and she fires it up.
“Babe, you smell like bread. I could just eat you up. Really.”
I am light. Joyful. “You shall get your chance.” I leer at her. “Really.”
We laugh and she spins the jeep around and heads for the open highway.
Brawler.
Vandal.
Thief.
Accused murderer.
Former death row inmate.
Now free.
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