Jailbird Kid Read online

  Dad didn’t look up. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him. Connie doesn’t like him much. She said I got this choice — me or him. So I had to tell Uncle Al to find a new partner —”

  “I thought you said you ain’t seen him,” Gemma said.

  Dad was trapped. It was time to make a snack, so I opened the fridge door. Mom’s groceries had been pushed aside to make room for a case of beer and a pizza with two slices missing. I took a piece of pizza and ate it cold. Yum!

  “You gonna find a job?” Gemma asked. Then she cried, “Ouch!” as Dad’s needles hit a sensitive spot on her outstretched hand.

  “Hold still,” Dad said. “Yeah, I’m planning to.”

  “What kind of job do you want to get this time, Dad?” I asked.

  “Oh, I’d like to get back working at the graveyard for starters.”

  “You were good at it,” Gemma said. “You were kind to those people.”

  “Who can you be kind to at a graveyard?” I asked. “Everyone’s dead.”

  “Don’t matter,” Dad said. “I was nice to them, anyway. If my shovel loosened a chunk of dirt when I was digging the next grave over, sometimes their neighbour would fall into the new hole. So I’d tuck his old bones back where they belonged. Keep things neat.”

  “Oh, that’s real nice,” Gemma said.

  “Yeah, I’ll go down to the city yard office tomorrow after Connie gets my pants pressed. I’ve got to look good, even if it’s just to apply for a grave-digging job. Like Con says, you have to show class.”

  “Mom doesn’t like you to call her Con,” I said. “She doesn’t like that word.”

  Gemma and Dad stared at me.

  I stared back. Dad sat bare-chested, tattoos trailing down both arms. And I saw other scars, too. There were criss-cross cuts on his forearms and even some across his chest.

  “Aw, Connie gets funny ideas,” Gemma said. “I wished she’d be nicer to Jerry. He’s a good guy.”

  “No, he’s not,” Dad said. “Get rid of him.”

  “Hey, you got no right to say that. Jerry and Mike and you did a lot of jobs together.”

  “Shh!” Dad said, flicking his eyes toward me. “No more of that stuff. That’s past. Angela and Connie are depending on me.”

  “Yeah, right,” Gemma said in a tone I didn’t like.

  By the time Mom came home, Gemma had left, the table was set for supper, the pizza was warming in the oven, and I’d made a salad.

  “Wow!” Mom said. “This is great.”

  “Here, Con — uh, Connie — let me take your purse, those groceries,” Dad said, jumping up. “You hop into the shower, change into something cool. We’ll eat outside, like a picnic. Here, take a beer into the shower with you.”

  Mom laughed, and Dad laughed back. Cool.

  11

  Comics

  Ryan and I planned to get together at his house every day from now until exams were over. He was smart and liked to study lots.

  I finally got up the nerve to tell him about Dad. He blinked as he thought over what I’d told him. “Whoa, really?” he finally said.

  “Yeah, really.” I’d already lost communication with one friend because of Dad. If I lost Ryan, I’d be alone.

  “That’s kind of neat,” he said.

  I relaxed.

  “Let’s take a break from this.” Ryan logged onto his computer, using a password to gain access to some interesting sites. When the computer asked for “Destination,” I saw one called “Escape.”

  I laughed. “Hey, Dad would be interested in that option!”

  “It’s not exactly related to prison escapes,” he said with a smile.

  It was great to be able to joke instead of freaking out about the subject.

  Ryan was a total fan of comics, so we checked out some new posts on a nerdy web forum that Ryan was involved in to get the weekly updates on his favourite characters.

  “Comics are really changing,” Ryan informed me. “Even Superman — new look, new powers. He doesn’t fly anymore. He transports. Bullets go through him instead of bouncing off. Totally electronic. It’s all right, I guess, but some fans don’t like it.”

  “Look, Super Pets!” I read lists of new monsters that would be appearing in upcoming comic books.

  “Yeah, people of all ages are enjoying comics now.” He grinned. “Even bank managers. It’s all about having super powers, large muscles ...”

  A fantastic thought jumped into my head. “Dad would love it.”

  Ryan glanced at me. “Yeah? Your dad into this stuff?”

  “He would be if he saw this. Look at these illustrations. Dad loves to create and draw characters — villains, heroes, weird creatures!”

  “Let’s print some of this for you to take home,” Ryan offered.

  “Go for it!” I ordered.

  “We’ve got to get a computer,” I said, “but they cost a lot of money. Maybe someday when things are different.”

  “You can come and use mine anytime,” Ryan said. “No cost. Mom won’t care. I spend a couple of hours a day surfing the Net, anyway. Tell your dad to come over here sometime. You said he likes to draw pictures. What of?”

  “Weird stuff.” I tried to describe Dad’s art.

  “Anything like this?” he asked, and DragonLance Pictures flashed onto the screen. “I’ve read about fifty of these books. I know all the writers and the artists. Look.”

  We scanned through book titles and descriptions and drawings of huge green, silver, and white dragons with piercing eyes and flaming nostrils. Heroes wielded swords and lances to slash at minotaurs. Dark queens came to life surrounded by mischievous dwarves, generals, and knights. And there were evil barbarians and beautiful, victimized heroines.

  “Yes!” I shouted as the printed images rolled out. “This could be Dad’s future! These are the kinds of things he was born to do.” If help came through images of dragons, heroes, and villains, then I’d praise the cyber-world forever.

  Ryan laughed. “Well, if he wants to borrow my comic books or ask me about this stuff, I’ll bring over a box full.” He turned in his swivel chair to face me. “I’ll help all I can, Angela. You’re the first close friend I’ve ever had. I don’t have a dad. I mean, I do, but I’ve never seen him. He left Mom when I was a year old.” There was a catch in his voice. “Maybe your dad isn’t perfect, but he’s there now. And I’m sure he cares a lot about you.”

  I stared hard at the computer screen. Laurana, flying over a high mountain peak astride the fire-breathing Silver Dragon, wavered and then faded.

  Ryan busied himself clicking the mouse. “Let’s see if I can find anything about prisons.”

  I followed his search. We found book titles with intriguing names: Waiting for the Ice Cream Man, Shaking It Rough, Prisoners of Isolation. I made a note to look them up in the library to learn more about what Dad had been through.

  “Is there anything on the Net about helping ex-cons find jobs?” I asked.

  We put out a query on a chat line and were told about the John Howard Society, Seven Steps programs, and others.

  “Is your dad on parole?” Ryan asked.

  “No, he served his full sentence. He’s free.”

  “Oh, then it looks like he’s on his own. These groups will help if someone’s on parole or are going to be getting out of prison and need halfway houses or something.”

  I sighed. “Yeah, he’s on his own, and that’s why he needs us.”

  We also discovered there were papers written and talks given on subjects such as “Women on the Outside” for wives, girlfriends, or mothers of inmates. “What about ‘Kids on the Outside’? I asked, but could find nothing.

  “Maybe you should write something,” Ryan suggested.

  “Maybe I wi
ll.”

  Two hours passed, and we had hardly opened our textbooks to study for tomorrow’s test. In the next half-hour we crammed in a day’s worth of studying.

  I walked home, carrying a stack of information. I’d gained a lot more than a study partner. Ryan was a true friend. He’d offered help when I really needed it.

  12

  Business

  The second last week of June we went to school only to write exams, so I had most afternoons free. When I got home, I found the door locked. Dad must have gone out looking for a job!

  I let myself in and went into my bedroom. There were voices outside in the backyard. I peered out my window and saw Dad and Uncle Al sitting at the picnic table, drinking coffee. They were talking in low voices. I watched them without being observed by peeking through my sheer curtain and heard them quite plainly through the open window.

  I wish I hadn’t.

  “Well, I meant to come around, see how Con was getting on while you were in the slammer,” Uncle Al was saying to Dad, “but then I got busy. And I know Con doesn’t like me much.”

  “She doesn’t know you,” Dad said.

  Uncle Al laughed. “Yeah, right. Well, Con’s entitled to her opinions. She’s done okay with her job and everything. And I’ve got my own business to run.”

  “You look like a millionaire.”

  He and Uncle Al sure didn’t seem related. Dad was bare-chested and barefoot and wore only a pair of knee-slashed jeans. Uncle Al’s light blue golf shirt had a little collar and a crocodile emblem on the front, and he wore white pants with a perfect crease. His black hair was neatly cut and styled.

  Uncle Al’s laugh was deep and diabolical. “Well, I’ve got a good deal going. And it’s even legal, Your Honour! Business licence and everything. Called Dial-a-Dream.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Personal deliveries — booze, mix, party stuff. When I started out, I called it Dial-a-Party, but cops hassled me all the time. I told them to leave honest citizens alone and go after the crooks.”

  Uncle Al sounded hurt and indignant. Dad shook his head in agreement with Al’s reason for annoyance.

  “Now, you.” Uncle Al leaned forward, his tone suddenly business-like. “We’ve got to set you up in something. If you can get some dough together, maybe you can even buy into the business.”

  “I might have a job,” Dad said. “Angela printed me some information off the computer about night courses I could take. She thinks I could learn how to draw on computers and sell the pictures for book covers and illustrate comic books.”

  “Hey, that’s a hobby,” Uncle Al said. “I’m talking business here. Wouldn’t you like to own a business and do your drawings on a computer? We can get everything you need, drawing programs, you name it. Hot computers are a dime a dozen — I could get you anything you want. You can learn and work at the same time.”

  “Yeah?” Dad sounded pathetically hopeful.

  “Yeah.” Uncle Al took a sip of coffee. “Excuse me.” He slowly stood, stretched, and came into the house, likely to use the bathroom.

  I sat back, wishing I’d thought to close my bedroom door. I couldn’t get up and do it now. He would see me.

  “Hello there, Angela.” Uncle Al was standing in the doorway. “Get home early from school?” There was a little smile on his face.

  “Yeah, we’re just writing exams this week.”

  “How are you doing?”

  “All right.”

  Uncle Al took out a money clip, flipped through some twenty- and fifty-dollar bills, and threw a fifty onto my bed. “Here. Early graduation present. Buy yourself something nice.” He winked and went into the bathroom.

  I quietly closed my bedroom door. In a couple of minutes I heard him go out.

  “I’ve gotta split,” he said to Dad. “Got a business to look after.”

  I had to keep everything straight in my mind. I hadn’t told Mom that Uncle Al was here the other day. And I couldn’t let Dad know I’d overheard him and Uncle Al discussing business. I’d heard the expression hush money. Now I knew what it meant. I had fifty dollars’ worth in my pocket.

  13

  Heroes

  We finished writing exams at school. Soon it would be our final sports day and picnic. I was entered in almost all track events because I was good and fast and wanted to win.

  As I hurried out of the room after the last exam was finished, Hannah caught up to me and tugged my arm to make me stop. Her usually happy brown eyes were big and sad. “Angela, we’ve got to talk.”

  “I can’t. I have to practise.”

  “I’ll walk you to the jumping pit.”

  We strode along together, but for once we didn’t have anything to say. While I waited for the teacher to rake the sand pit so he could measure our distances in the long jump, Hannah suddenly said, “Angela, I’m really sorry.”

  “About what?”

  “About your dad. I shouldn’t have told.”

  “It’s okay. I’m not going to hide things anymore. I shouldn’t have said he was an out-of-town businessman.”

  “If you hadn’t, maybe we wouldn’t have gotten to know each other ...” She hesitated, trying not to say what we were both thinking. If she’d known Dad was in jail when I moved here, she wouldn’t have made friends with me in the first place.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said, pretending not to care, then lined up to make a jump.

  She watched for a while and finally left. I didn’t look after her until I knew she was too far away to notice. Hannah was trailing a stick in the dirt, like a leash with no dog, trudging slowly through the school grounds. She looked lonelier than I did.

  I had lots of company now. The track team had been practising every afternoon, I often went over to Ryan’s, and now with Dad being home, I was never alone.

  Dad didn’t seem to be making much effort to look for a job. He mostly hung around the house, drinking coffee in the morning and switching to beer in the late afternoon as he shuffled through his magazines and artwork stored in an old trunk. He called it “taking inventory.”

  When I got home from track practice, Dad tried to get me to check out his material. So I did to please him. “What are the markers for in these magazines?” I asked.

  “Those are stories about my favourite people — Al Capone, Dutch Schultz, Lucky Luciano, you know, the big guys.”

  “Oh.”

  “And this mag features Al Capone’s tunnels. They ran from the Lexington Hotel in Chicago to all the speakeasies and bookie joints. This map shows secret exits from his gaming rooms.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Well, take a look here.” He spread open the magazine to display pictures of fierce men with hats pulled low and guns pointed. There were scenes of massacres, of dead bodies hanging out of car doors or lying on streets in pools of blood.

  “What do you see in these things?” I asked. “Who are these men?”

  “Heroes,” Dad said.

  I hesitated to do it, but I asked Ryan if he could pull any material about the Mob from the Internet.

  He looked away, his face reddening. “Sure, Angela.”

  I swore to myself that I’d never again ask him to get me stuff like this. From now on I’d concentrate on real heroes, people my dad should admire and learn from — like Dr. Phil or Oprah.

  Later Ryan handed me an envelope containing printouts on movies, books, and television shows featuring various Mafia members and their crimes. I thanked him and quickly stuffed the envelope into my backpack.

  I knew that re-educating Dad was going to involve a major learning process, especially when I returned home to see him sorting pictures and stories about one of his favourites — Machine Gun Kelly.

  �
��You won’t believe this, Angela,” he said, flipping a well-worn page, “but Machine Gun Kelly never actually killed anybody. He’s just like me.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’d never kill anyone, either. I couldn’t even help Mamma butcher her chickens. And Con thinks I should ask Hank to find me a job in the packing plant! Never! Never! No way.” Dad closed the magazine, slid it back into its protective plastic envelope, and took out his drawings. “These are ones I did while I was in the jug.” He was referring to his last stay at Fort Gavin prison. “This here’s Smiley. He was a guard. A good fella, Smiley.” Dad handed over his portrait of a nice-looking gentleman.

  “Most inmates don’t like guards, but Smiley’s different. All the guys talked to him. When I did his picture and he showed it around, the guys asked me if I’d draw their pictures. Then they sent ’em to their girls or their wives — or both.” Dad laughed.

  He put down other sketches he’d made — of men with no smiles, men with no teeth, men with hair cut short like Dad’s or hanging long and scraggly, some in braids, some in ponytails. Men with big ears, crooked noses, bushy eyebrows, squinting eyes, tattooed chests, backs, and arms.

  We were so busy looking at Dad’s artwork that we didn’t hear someone come up the steps. Suddenly, Uncle Al burst into the room. I jumped, and Dad let out a holler.

  “Hey, you’re getting slow, Weasel. Just like Mike said. I could have knocked over the joint and you wouldn’t have even looked up.” Uncle Al slapped Dad on the shoulder and winked at me. “Hi, Angela. Hey, what have you got there?” He picked up a picture and then a second one. “Weasel, these yours? They’re good!”

  “Yeah? You think so?” Dad glanced up, a pleased look on his face.

  Uncle Al picked up another, and another. “You could do this for a living.”

  “That’s what the warden said. He had me paint a mural on the wall in the cafeteria. But naw, I don’t think there’s any money in this.”

  “Well, yeah! There’s got to be a buck in it somewhere. Like I said, you got talent. How did you do these pictures of all these guys? They pose for you?”