by J.E. Wantz

The bus stop was across the street from a cemetery. He set his suitcase down and turned to the east. Down the road a quarter of a mile laid a small town. It had a post office, a donut shop, a diner, a 7-11, and other places one would find in a former whistle stop that had become a trumped-up prison town. He'd never been to the town though he'd heard plenty about its charms over the years. Now that he could go investigate the buildings he'd only seen in profile from half a mile away, he didn't want to. It was the cemetery that held his attention. He'd thought it was a park.

For the last five years he'd been able to see it out his cell window. He'd only been able to see a small piece of what he thought was a larger park. On weekends people would come visit, and he imagined them and their families playing in the parts of the park he couldn't see. He thought of them as happy, and envied them their freedom and leisure. The stories he made up, to accompany their comings and goings, were his escape from the prison walls.

Now those envious thoughts and the happy family fantasies he'd made up shriveled and died. When faced with the reality that the people coming to this "park" were actually mourning the dead, he decided he no longer wanted to lay in the grass under the only large tree he could see from his cell. It had been one of his first "to do" items when he got out. He looked at the tree feeling faintly betrayed.

He sat down on the bench in the covered bus stop. He looked at his wrist for the time and didn't see his watch. Them he remembered that he'd given it to a friend earlier this morning. He'd thought he wouldn't need one when he got out, now he did. As he was trying to work out and approximate time a very familiar bell rang. It was followed by a loud booming voice: "Count Time! Count Time!" Now he knew what time it was - exactly. He had thirty minutes to wait for the bus.

The echoes of the voice faded away. The joke inside was that the voice was loud enough on to wake the dead. He looked to the cemetery.

"Guess not," he muttered.

It began to rain, and he was glad that the bus stop was covered. It shouldn't be raining. The image of how the day was supposed to be when he got out didn't include rain. He'd always envisioned sunshine, a light breeze, and a quick stop in the park to lie under the tree before his family or best friend pulled up to the curb to take him home. He never could decide who he wanted to pick him up, so he'd alternated images in his head depending on his mood. But it no longer mattered since the decision had been made for him. No sun, no park, and no friendly car ride - just the bus, the rain, and the cemetery.

"It figures," he said quietly.

He pulled the suitcase up onto the bench beside him. It had been left for him at the gatehouse. Someone in his family had come down, but probably couldn't wait out the three-hour discharge process. They had jobs to go to, no doubt. He understood. He was pleasantly surprised to pick up the case when he'd finally gotten outside. He hadn't had a chance to open it until now.

With anticipation and dread he did so.

Inside was what he'd expected. It was his own case, he'd packed it himself before he fell. He touched the top layer of clothes and remembered each piece. The envelope in the middle was new, but it looked like nothing else had been touched. He recognized his mother's handwriting on the outside of the envelope. He'd read it in a moment. Digging further he found a sealed pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and the wooden box he was dreading was still there. He left it alone for now. He knew what was in it, and if it was gone then all the better.

He picked up the cigarettes with a thrill ofthe forbidden. For his entire sentence cigarettes had been contraband and a costly secret indulgence. Now he held a sealed pack. He quickly calculated how much it was worth and felt the briefhigh of imagining all the canteen he would be getting in payment. The moment passed quickly. He looked to the west and the prison for the first time. He was no longer inside.

He fumbled with the unfamiliar cellophane wrapping but finally got the pack opened. The smell of the old cigarettes was strong and flooded his mind with memories. With shaking fingers he eased a single tube out. It had a filter and it wasn't squished or flattened. Nor was it cut with straw, lint, or lawn shavings. He struggled against a stuck roller on his lighter, succeeding after a minute in getting a spark to ignite the gas. He lit the cigarette and inhaled.

Immediately he started coughing and hacking. It was too strong, and it tasted funny. He looked at the pack again: Menthol. "Toothpaste cigarettes," he chuckled. He'd forgotten that Menthol was what he'd only smoked before prison. The boys had liked them, too. He puffed on it as the memories came back with the taste and the smell. They were memories of a life he'd never been able to share with anyone inside. Memories of why he was in prison in the first place.

He'd hidden his past and built a facade to survive on the inside. He'd bought false paperwork early on, and lived the lie that he'd assaulted a guy with a knife at a bar. He hadn't, but no one would know his private shame, including his best friend in the joint, with whom he'd celled for the last four years. His friend was Manslaughter and they got along famously.

He smoked a second cigarette while looking at the outside walls of the prison. He'd been someone in there. He'd worked Rec Dept, maintained the weight equipment, and played all the sports. He never did anything that might clue someone in on the secret that he was a chomo, a sex offender. He stayed away from the chapel, the library, that section of the chow hall and yard. He never took any class or treatment group unless forced to, and complained the whole time. He bought himself into the parenting program as a further indication he was solid, since no chomos could ever take the class.

The program ended with a much-anticipated family visit. It was the main reason guys took the class. As it neared he fumed and complained because his wife and daughter couldn't make it. It was a lie. She'd divorced him when he first fell and they had no children, though he'd convinced many that he did by staging fake phone calls. He'd yelled and cussed at his "wife" while using the phone on the tier. The whole time it was nothing but a dial tone.

He got good at living the lie while secretly hiding his interest when other guys showed him pictures of their growing kids. The girls were nothing more to him than cute, but the boys ...

He'd hidden his interest very well. No one suspected a thing. But now, while sitting on the bench and smoking his cigarette, he knew his secret would be a secret no more. Tomorrow or the next day the newspaper would run a notification on him.

Then everyone inside and outside would know. He cringed with a familiar emotion - fear.

The cigarettes were old. They burned too fast. Even with cellophane their moisture had fled. He didn't much mind; he had a whole pack - eighteen more cigs to go. He lit a third as his head swam.

His celly had gotten out last month. The next day he'd gotten the shock of his life. In the newspaper was his celly's photo and a notification that the sex offender just released from custody had molested both girls and boys younger than fourteen years of age. He'd been livid when he'd read the paper. He'd been lied to for years, and been sharing his house with a freak without knowing it. Everyone in the unit knew how mad he was. He called his former friend every name he could think of, and loudly vowed to beat the living shit out of him if he ever saw him on the outside.

He was so vocal that guys on the weight pile, in the unit, and elsewhere in the prison never suspected how relieved he felt that he wouldn't be alone when he got out. He'd look up his friend all right, but not to beat him down. He'd do it so they could be two in a society that hated them, instead of all alone. He was privately relieved that he wouldn't have to be. His private fear was to be completely alone. He forgave his friend the lie.

His secret relief had lasted all of two weeks. In the morning paper was an article about a fire. The subsidized housing motel where the county put up all the newly released sex offenders had burned to the ground. A young arsonist, just released from prison, was arrested. The boy had turned himself in before the flames were out. His prison nickname was Torch and he was charged with the murder of seven men in the fire. They were all freaks, and so Torch would be a hero when he came back to prison.

His former celly was dead. The only person that he could have been an outcast with was gone. He'd given the greatest acting performance of his life when guys slapped him on the back and said his freak problem had been taken care of. He'd had to act happy, he felt more alone than ever.

The investigation into the fire revealed code violations, non-working sprinklers, blocked fire escapes, and a locked front door. The men were never going to have gotten out alive. The motel was a death trap. Following the investigation there were congratulatory letters from interested citizens to the editors of local newspapers. They wrote to thank the arsonist for caring more for the young and vulnerable children of the city than the state or county governments did.

Torch was lauded for his act. Some wrote that he should be pardoned. The families of the combined victims of the seven sex offenders pooled their resources and hired a big-name defense attorney for the arsonist. The city never fired anyone for the negligence at the subsidized housing motel. Proposed changes were ignored. The message was clear - sex offenders weren't worth it.

He lit another cigarette and wished he could've just stayed in prison. He was someone in there, even if he’d had to lie all the time. Out here he was no one.

He fumbled with the envelope, broke the seal, and removed one piece of his mother's cow stationery. "Dear Son," it began. "Your father and I talked. We think it would be best, for the family ... " and on it went. Despite the flowery script and extra words, the message was clear.

"Don't come home, ever."

He put the letter down. Now he understood why they didn't wait, just left the suitcase and drove away. He'd been afraid something like this would happen. That it hadn't - had given him hope that maybe he'd been forgiven. But for the good of the family, which now included five nieces and four nephews he'd never seen and only barely knew their names, he was to stay away.

He was no longer a member.

He lit another cigarette even though his throat felt raw and his lungs ached. He had to do something with his hands. Mostly he held it and flicked the ashes onto the wet concrete. The rain kept falling, and the ditch at the edge of the road ran with water. He wadded up the note and tossed it into the runoff. He watched it bob and spin out of sight towards the town. The bus would be by in a few minutes and he knew if he were to lay under the tree he'd need to do it soon.

Digging under his folded clothing in the suitcase he grabbed the wooden box. He could tell by its weight that what he'd worried was there, was still there. He closed the case and set it next to the bench. He stood up and had to grip the support post when the cigarettes hit him with a wave of light-headedness. After that passed he stepped into the rain and crossed the quiet street. Count hadn't cleared yet and so the prison was shrouded in silence. He remembered the peaceful quiet of count times. They were his favorite times of the day, when the noise and bluster calmed, and he could just be himself.

He didn't pause at the cemetery entrance. His purposeful steps lead him under the boughs of the large tree. Flicking away the wet cigarette, he lit a new one while feeling a flush of luxury that he could waste as much tobacco as he wanted. He ignored the urge to go find the unfinished cigarette and save it for later. He smiled at his undying prison instincts.

The ground under the tree was dry. He was pleased that he'd decided to come over. The cemetery was peaceful, just as he imagined the park would be. He sat, discovering a headstone hidden under the grass and leaves. He cleared it off and read the words. Michael O'Connell-1970-1979 Our beloved son, we will miss you forever.

He ran his fingers over the chiseled stone, lingering on the year of the boy's death and his age at the same time. It seemed fitting that a man no one wanted sat next to a dead boy everyone had forgotten. Fitting indeed.

He sat and stared at the grave marker as he smoked his cigarette. While only halfway through that one he pulled out another. He lit it from his, drew a lungful, and then placed the burning cigarette on the boy's grave marker as an offering. The "Count Clear" announcement told him the time. He knew the bus would be along soon. He didn't have much time.

He opened the box, checked the contents, and lifted out his gun. He slowly slid in the loaded magazine and chambered a round. He smelled the rain, heard the bus coming, and wondered if anyone would miss him. He lifted the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger. His limp body fell across the boy's grave smothering both cigarettes. The bus didn't stop on its way into town.

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