The Red House Ch. 02

"You think it'll work, John?" Momma whispered, the fear evident in her voice.

"I think so," I replied. "I agree with L.M. It's our best chance."

Momma said, "I'm scared that you be taking a mighty big chance, son. Your granddaddy's a crazy old bastard." Her hand tightened slowly and protectively around my not quite flaccid flesh. "I'd up and die if something happened to you 'cause of me."

"Nothings going to happen to me, Momma, except in the end you get to go home with me." I screwed up my courage and said with more emphasis. "I'm sure of it!" Something I had been considering suddenly seemed imperative to do. Gingerly and with some reluctance, I slipped free of Momma's embrace and padded naked to the living room area and began digging through the backpack I carried my personal stuff in.

Momma looked over at me curiously, sitting up on the side of the bed as I returned carrying a small box in one hand. I stopped before her, my head roaring as blood began rushing through my veins in excitement. Momma looked at it curiously and then quickly brought one hand to her mouth as she realized what it was. "John...son, what in hell do y'all think your doing?"

I slowly knelt at her feet, opening the box to reveal a diamond ring inside. In a shaky voice I replied, "It belonged to Mom...Donna – it was her engagement ring. She left it to me to give to the right woman when I met her. Well, I've met her." I looked up at my mother and took a deep breath. "Momma, I love you. Momma, will you please mar..."

Momma cut me off as she pressed fingers to my mouth. In a voice that was both happy and full of pain, Momma said, "No – don't ask me, son – not here, please not here." I must have looked crushed because Momma swiftly moved to her knees facing me and kissing me. When she drew back, she said, "Son, you know my answer already – there aint no denying what we are to each other and you know I'm gonna say yes!" She shook her head and continued, "But not in this shithole. Ask me when you get me free. When you take me home, stop someplace pretty and green and ask me." Momma reached out and closed the box and took it from my hand and set it on the table beside the bed.

Momma placed her hands on both sides of my face and slowly drew me to her. "I love you, son," my mother said, tears running down her face. "You done and made an old woman happier than she ever known was possible." She kissed me and then climbed into my lap, hugging me tight as we continued to kiss. I put away any disappointment I felt and kissed her back hard, relishing the feel of her luscious body against mine. I wanted to see Momma happy. I wanted her to wear my ring. I wanted her at home with me where she belonged. I thought of L.M.'s suggestion and knew I had to do it as soon as possible. Everyday without Momma by my side was a day lost and I wanted no more lost days!

#

I stood looking up at the old marble and stone courthouse in the square of the small city. It looked worn and outdated, much like the town itself. Now in early October, the heat continued to bake Southern Mississippi, doing nothing to improve it. I turned and looked all around at the hometown of my father and like him, it did nothing to impress me. I shifted the thick file I was holding from one hand to the other.

Across the street from the courthouse, a row of old buildings were shoved up next to each other. A small bakery, a five and dime with dilapidated mechanical horses that offered a ride for a quarter, and next to it, a storefront with a big window with "RE-ELECT GARRETT – KEEP THE SHERIFF IN CONGRESS" painted in red, white and blue. In smaller, gold-leaf letters, it proclaimed this as the local office of the honorable Andrew Garrett of the U.S. House of Representatives. It was time or as L.M. had put it, "Time to roll for all the marbles." Taking a deep breath, I crossed the street and walked inside my grandfather's office.

Inside, I found a few people busily phoning supporters or putting together campaign materials. With only a month to go before election, there was no time to waste and with the 'toss the incumbents out' mentality this year, there was a sense of urgency. I ignored the campaign workers and approached a large mahogany desk where a lovely young woman with long, honey-blonde hair appeared to be manning the entire operation. She considered me with the air of someone who was trying to place somebody they thought seemed familiar. "Can I help you?"

Trying to keep the nervousness out of my voice, I replied, "I'd like to see Congressman Garrett."

Smiling smugly, she responded with, "Do you have an appointment?"

"Ah, no."

The pretty girl gave me a sympathetic smile and said, "I'm sorry then. The Congressman is a very busy man and you'll need to make an appointment."

With a dismissive air, she turned from me to reach for the phone. She paused when I said, "Oh, I think he'll see me. Tell him his grandson, John, wants to see him."

She turned and looked at me in surprise. "Grandson? Congressman Garrett doesn't have a grandson." I could see her brain working in overdrive behind her sparkling green eyes. She was running over the biography of granddaddy – the same one I'd learned in recent days. Andrew Garrett – age sixty-eight. Remarried at age fifty-seven, following the death of his first wife, Edith who passed away from cancer five years following the untimely death of his son, Lee Dean. With his new wife, he had two children, ages nine and six. I actually had an uncle and a niece.

"Sure he does," I replied. "John – son of Lee Dean. I go by Henderson rather than Garrett. I'd rather burn in hell than use that name. Go tell him I'm here."

The receptionist was now nonplussed and scooted away from her desk as if scared I might do something crazy and muttered, "Please wait right here." She got up and hurried out of the room, going deeper into the building.

I waited, using the time to study my surroundings. Lots of photographs adorned the walls – all connected with Andrew Garrett. Pictures of my grandfather in his sheriff days, a big, robust man, pictures of him as Congressman or on the campaign trail, pictures of him and other politicians, even him with a couple of presidents. My eyes finally came to rest on a picture of him with my father and my grandmother.

I'd ran across a few pictures of Lee Dean while doing research, but they were grainy and blurry. Here I could clearly see that Momma was right. I did look like him, although where he was already running to fat at my age, I was just a bit stocky. The one thing we seemed to have different was the eyes – mine were blue like Momma's and his were a dark, menacing black. What gave me pause was my grandmother whose picture I'd not seen before. My father and I took after her – same nose and chin and the same sandy-blonde hair. She was a pretty woman, but her smile in the family photograph was forced, almost pained. For the first time, I considered what her life was like. I shook my head and wondered what other pain my forefathers had caused.

"The Congressman will see you now." The blonde receptionist had returned, standing a safe distance away. She gestured towards the door she'd retreated through earlier. I followed her down a long narrow hall until she stopped in front of a door and pointed. She gave me a strange stare as I brushed by her and then I forgot about her as I met my grandfather for the first time.

Andrew Garrett appeared to have aged considerably from the pictures on the wall. Maybe he had been hale and heart most of his life, but now mortality seemed to be catching up with him with a vengeance. His hair was thin and gray, he was a big man who'd shrunk considerably and now seemed to almost swim under a finely pressed shirt, tie hanging haphazardly around his neck. His face was lined with sun drawn wrinkles. He stared at me with my father's eyes for a long minute.

Finally, he gave a long drawn out sigh and said, "So you're the whore's brat, huh?"

"Nice to meet you too, Grandpa."

He nearly spit at me as he sat forward in his chair behind a massive desk and said, "You aint family, boy. You're the filth that ran down your whorin' momma's leg."

I felt my face redden and my anger build as I responded, "Take a good look at me old man. I'm not proud of it, but Lee Dean's my father."

He started to spit another retort, but his eyes studied my face and then dampened, acknowledging wordlessly that I spoke the truth. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a white handkerchief and hawked into it. Finally, he looked at me again and said, "What the hell you want, boy?"

"I want my mother's parole to go through this month."

He let out a raspy laugh and slapped the table. "Like hell. Only way your momma leaves prison is in a pine box to be dumped in the pauper's graveyard."

"You've took nearly twenty years away from my momma – years she never deserved to lose. You'll let her go or I'll ruin you." I tossed the file I'd been carrying onto the desk.

Garrett eyed the file like I'd flung shit all over his desk. Gingerly, he opened the file up and began leafing through, his face darkening as he looked at its contents. He paused over some of the more graphic photographs and while I looked for a glimmer of shame or humanity in his eyes, I never saw either surface. Finally, he closed the file and said, "You ain't gonna get a retrial and if you do, I guarantee it will take years and she'll still be guilty. Sides, most of this shit ain't admissible."

I nodded and said, "I never said anything about a retrial. I said I'd destroy you. You're running for re-election and if your party wins big, you get to be a big shot chairman of some dumb shit committee. I give this to the media and they read all about the famous 'law and order' sheriff-congressman and how he hid his asshole son's brutalizing women and your name is mud...here and in Washington. That's before they begin scrutinizing your malfeasance in office...then and now."

My grandfather licked his lips and then responded. "Boy, you don't know how things work here. I run things here."

"No, you intimidate folks and blackmail them and whatever 'cause that's how it's always been done, but it's the twenty-first century – the information age. You can control all the law officers you want and the local courts and parole boards and such, but this if information goes out to the media and the internet, you are truly fucked...at best you wind up an ex-sheriff and ex-congressman with no power and a whole lot of enemies looking for payback." I was speaking in harsh, brutal clips, scarcely able to breathe.

We had a staring contest for over a minute before he leaned back in his chair and said, "Maybe I just erase you and your whore momma from the equation altogether."

I grinned and said, "You could do that, but then copies of this file go out. To the television stations here in Mississippi and in Washington, to the Washington Post and L.M. steps in and files all sorts of suits to play hell with you."

His eyes widened at the mention of the law professor's name. "You be bluffing – he ain't gonna be involved."

"Yeah, he said you wouldn't believe me. He said to tell you he expects to have another federal court order or two for you to wipe your ass on again. He said to tell you these aren't the old days anymore."

His face paled a bit and then he said, "You're still bluffing. This ain't some goddamn movie."

I leaned in, resting my hands on his desk and said, "It's exactly like a goddamn movie. You get my mother paroled before the end of the month or I will bring you down. If you fuck with me, Grandpa, you better stock up on Vaseline because your enemies will be lining up to fuck you up the ass."

Again, there was a long silence and I suspected he was preparing to tell me to go fuck myself, but finally he said in a much quieter voice than before, "That whore murdered your father, boy – don't that matter?"

I didn't spare a second in replying, "She put down a fucking rabid dog. I'm ashamed that I come from his blood and yours. You got your pound of flesh for Momma doing what you should have done long ago. She paid half her life for doing the right thing. It's done. Let her go."

His face went pale, then red as I spoke. Slowly, it paled again as he fumbled on the desk for a pack of cigarettes and matches. Lighting up, he sucked in a lungful of what I hoped was cancerous smoke and then as he exhaled, said, "What exactly do you want?"

I smiled and said, "Two weeks from now, she has her parole hearing and you make sure her parole is granted. You leave her be. You leave us both be. No reprisals against her, me or anyone you think helped us. Anything happens to her or me and your world ends. After she's free, we don't know you and you don't know us. We're finished. Oh, and just so you know, you're not getting my vote."

Smoke curled up around his head, enveloping the old man's face. I barely was able to see him nod his head and then say, "Get out, boy." He slowly spun his chair around to face the wall. He didn't say another word and I walked away. I never saw that sorry son of a bitch again.

#

On October Twenty-first, Momma sat before the parole board. I sat in the audience with a few other family members of prisoners, a reporter who was dozing and Tisha. They asked Momma some silly-assed questions about being rehabilitated and listened to Corrections Officer Latisha Wilkins report about Momma's good conduct and that she had family support ready and waiting upon release. The five person board shuffled some papers around and then the chairperson, a heavy-set middle aged woman said, "Thank you, Miz Howard. The Board's recommendation will be released in a couple of weeks."

A gray haired gentleman in a rumpled seersucker suit reached out and placed his hand on the woman's wrist and said, "Madame Chairperson, I think the Board is ready to vote now." He gave her a knowing look and she slowly nodded and he added, "Madam Chairperson, I call for a vote to parole Carleen Howard."

Five minutes later, Momma was granted parole – her freedom to come within two days as papers were filed and processed. Momma and I were allowed to hug for a moment, both of us crying and even Tisha looked a bit misty-eyed.

The next two days were the longest I'd spent since I'd first come to see my mother. My imagination was filled with all sorts of worst case scenarios that my grandfather might inflict upon us, but on October Twenty-fourth, I sat in the parking lot in front of the women's prison, my eyes drawn again and again to the Red Houses beyond the fence line, thinking of what those old, tumbledown shacks had meant to us.

I could see activity around the Red Houses, prisoners being led to them by female guards. I couldn't make out faces, but one women prisoner had long, stringy blonde hair. Before she reached her destination, she turned and looked my way through the metal fence and razor wire and waved. Maybe it was Ettie, maybe not. I never was sure. I never saw her again. I wish her and her little boy well, though.

A klaxon rang out and the front gates of the prison swung open. Tisha stepped out, one arm hooked through Momma's arm. Gone was the old khaki prison dress. Instead Momma was wearing the pretty summer dress I'd brought her the first time we'd spent the weekend at the Red House, the elastic top tugged down to leave her shoulders bare and much of the upper swell of her breasts visible – her tit flesh bouncing along as free and unrestrained as Momma now was. Momma broke into a run as soon as she saw me, a little awkward and unbalanced on the short high heels I'd sent along with the dress earlier that morning. White, unblemished thighs flashed dangerously high as we ran to each other.

My mother fairly leapt into my arms and I crushed her in an embrace like I never wanted to let her go. I lifted her up and spun her around before lowering her so I could kiss her face. She looked beautiful through tear blurred eyes – both of us crying and both of us saying how much we loved each other between wet, passionate kisses.

Finally, we both remembered that Tisha was standing there, watching us, tear tracks evident on her face. I reached out and pulled her to us, saying, "Thank you so much, Tisha – I owe you everything for getting Momma free." I kissed her cheek and then I kissed her on the mouth. For a brief moment I caught her cinnamon scent.

Momma moved in on her and they shared a long embrace and a passionate kiss before they reluctantly let each other go and Momma moved back into my arms. "I – thanks, Tisha," Momma gushed. "I reckon I owe you my freedom as much as I do John."

Tisha wiped her cheek clear of moisture and looked at us both, a funny smile on her face. For the first time, I realized she looked a little wan – tired, as if she didn't feel well. I hadn't seen her since I'd last visited Momma in the Red House. We'd talked a time or two on the phone, but she'd passed on my more than subtle hints to get together. "Are you okay, Tisha?"

The black woman nodded and said, "I'm fine, boy." She dropped her gaze for a moment and then lifted her head and said bluntly, "Y'all don't owe me a thing. This is the prison and nothing gets done for free. I did for you and you did for me." That funny smile returned and she said, "You did for me more than you might ever know."

Tisha came up to us both and hugged us together. "Go on now, boy. This girl is free, get her the hell out of here." She smiled at us one more time and said, "Y'all take care now, hear?" and turned and walked away, the klaxon blaring again as the gates opened up and swallowed her. She never looked back.

Momma turned to me and suddenly the enormity of what had happened hit her. She looked around, realizing that for the first time in almost twenty years, she was outside the walls of the prison...that she was free. Momma began to shiver as if freezing and clung to me as if the wide open spaces were closing in. She looked at me with both love and fear in her eyes and whispered, "Get me the hell away from here, son!"

We climbed into my car – a not too new small sedan. I showed her how to work the seat belt and then I was in and we took off. Neither of us looked back at the prison. For a few minutes, Momma just watched Mississippi go by, marveling at the stark difference that everything was in regards to where she's lived for the last two decades. Newly harvested fields, shotgun shacks, irrigation canals, children both black and white playing in the hard scrabble yards – all of it Momma just soaked in.

After several minutes of silence, Momma reached out and took my hand, squeezing it. When I looked over at my mother, she was crying, tears pouring from her eyes. "Momma, are you okay?" I asked.

She nodded and then shook her head. "I don't rightly believe this is happening," she said in a halting voice. "I keep thinking I'll wake up and it'll 'bout kill me to know I was dreaming."

I pulled her hand to my lips and kissed it gently. "It's no dream, Momma. You're here with me now...now and forever. We can go wherever you want and do whatever you want!"

Momma's face glowed with love as she in turn pulled my hand to her lips and kissed it over and over. "I just want to be with you, son, the rest of my life."

We drove on, not talking, hands still joined and occasionally giving each other a look that was more than enough to convey our love for each other. We passed through a small town with a fast food chicken place. I went through the drive-thru and picked us up a picnic bucket and drinks. Another ten miles down the road saw us approaching a small Civil War Battlefield park, full of trees and a small row of cannons. We pulled in and I retrieved a blanket from the trunk and we carried our food over into the trees where I spread the blanket under a tall oak.