Radio Secrets

    “Time to go, Lister.”
    Raymond opened his eyes and looked through the bars. He lay on the bottom bunk. Above him lay William Andrews. Raymond knew his cellmate was pretending to be asleep so he wouldn’t have to say good-bye.
    Who gave a damn? Raymond didn’t want to say good-bye either. Andrews was a punk, and Raymond had set him straight the first day they were locked up together. The trouble with kids these days was—out on the street they had a piece, in the joint they had nothing, and the fish couldn’t fight worth a damn. They were so used to pulling a piece, they didn’t know how to defend themselves. It hadn’t taken long for Raymond Lister to straighten out
William Andrews.
    Raymond got up and took one last look around the cell, his home for the last twenty years, twenty-two days. In the corner sat a seatless toilet, and near it, the wash basin, its shelf, and a metal mirror—all so familiar. The wall opposite the bunk beds was covered with pinups from midway up. Below the pinups, nothing. There was a shelf, but one end of it was empty. Until the day before, half the shelf had been filled with books, all kinds of books. It had taken Raymond a year and a half to learn that the boredom of a lifetime stretch could be eased by more than workouts in the weight room.
    Still, nothing was posted on the wall below the shelf. Nothing could come in the way of Raymond projecting her face on the wall opposite his bunk. Anytime he wanted, day or night, Raymond could roll over and see her face on his half of that wall. And that open space had come to the attention of the warden during one of his walk-through inspections.
    “Really, Lister, you should have something on that wall.”
    “There is something on that wall.”
    The warden was taken aback. “Explain what you mean. I see nothing there.”
    “It’s what I see—what I remember there.”
    The warden eyed his prisoner. He didn’t need another weirdo in this particular cell block. They already had the slasher down the hall, the flasher across from Lister, and the prison’s jailhouse lawyer, who had brought Lister to the attention of the parole board, saying, no matter how brutal the act, a lifetime stretch was too long for any rape. And, finally, Lister’s victim had not appeared before the board to plead her case.
    “Then,” said the warden, “all I can say is you must have a very vivid imagination.”
    “That I do, Warden. That I do.”
    A blank wall gave him plenty of room to see her, and sometimes late at night, during the long hours before falling asleep—because The Woman was robbing him of the best years of his life!—Raymond tried to see what she might look like after ten, then fifteen, and eventually twenty years.
    Certainly The Woman would’ve aged; added a little gray, some wrinkles, a bit of weight around the middle. Hell, twenty years did a lot of things to people. They had to him; more so to a woman. At first, Raymond had wished The Woman bad luck. But as he grew older, he realized he wanted her to prosper, to be successful. That way she’d pay dearly for what she had robbed him of.
    A call from the turnkey and the cell door opened.
    Alongside the turnkey stood a guard.
    What the hell were they thinking! He wasn’t about to try anything. Twenty years in this damned place. Raymond didn’t want to be here another twenty seconds. And that’s all that kept him from spitting on his cell mate lying on the upper bunk pretending to be asleep.

* * *

    Vernon Pinckney opened the door to the studio where Jean Fox did her radio talk show. It appeared he’d arrived in the middle of something. Fox was upset with her engineer. Again.
    “Got to pick up the pace, Kyle.”
    “I’ve got it, Doc.”
    “No, you don’t. You’re off the mark. Pick it up.”
    Jean’s frown turned into a smile as she saw Pinckney standing halfway inside the studio, halfway out.
    “We’re still on for lunch?” he asked.
    Fox continued to smile. “You’re fattening me up for the kill, aren’t you?”
    The network manager returned the smile. “Nah, Jean, I figure you’ll be making the killing.”

* * *

    At the metal gate the warden offered his hand. “I wish you luck, Mr. Lister”—the first time in the last twenty years Raymond had been addressed in such a manner—“and I’d like to give you my hand on it.”
    Raymond looked at the hand, then the guard, standing close behind the warden. Beyond the gate was a second gate, its fence fifty feet from the first, then the gravel road, and miles and miles of open space. Guard towers every fifty yards. No place to run, no place to hide, and that’s why few tried to fly. There was just no way to get small in that much space.
    He looked at the warden. “I thought I’d been paroled. What else I got to do to get out of this fucking hole?”
    The warden withdrew his hand and nodded to a guard. The guard signaled the tower, a latch was thrown electronically, and the gate swung open toward the other gate, just fifty feet away.
    Before Raymond walked through, the warden said, “In the nine years I’ve been here, no one who’s shaken my hand has ever returned to this prison.”
    That stopped Raymond cold, hands becoming fists at
his sides. The bastard! Always playing their fucking mind games! Raymond told himself to control his anger. He wasn’t going anywhere, he wasn’t going to screw up the rest of anyone’s life but his own if he let this asshole get to him. And if this asshole could provoke him, he wouldn’t last twenty minutes on the outside.
     Raymond let out a breath, flexed his hands one last time, and followed the gate as it swung back, then waited for the second gate to open. The first gate had to close behind him before the second could be opened. Cautious bastards! Probably figured he’d try to sneak back in.
     Fools! He’d never return to that damn hole whether he’d shook hands with the warden or not!

* * *

    “This is Dr. Jean Fox, and welcome to the real world, Lynn.”
    “Oh, thanks for taking my call. I’ve been trying to get through for days.”
    “I’m glad you did.”
    “Dr. Fox, my fifteen-year-old-son ran away from home again.”
    “Do you have any idea where he is?”
    “Living with friends across town. I tried the tough love approach, but it’s not working, and now I’m wondering if I’ve alienated him completely. He has younger sisters and they don’t give me any trouble.”
    “I take it you’re divorced.”
    “Yes.”
    “How long?”
    “A couple of years after the last girl was born.”
    “Is their father still in the picture?”
    “I’m afraid not.”
    “Have you been to talk to your son, you know, to see if he will come home?”
    “Oh, yes, I meet him at the principal’s office. One of the counselors sits in with us.”
    “Did your son tell you why he ran away again?”
    “He said I’ve got to get rid of my boyfriend, but I don’t think—”
    “Boyfriend? You have a live-in boyfriend?”
    “Yes, and my son says he has to move out, but I don’t think a child should tell an adult what to do.”
    “Lynn, as you know, I’m not keen on live-in lovers myself.”
    “But a child telling an adult—”
    “Lynn, it’s not good idea to have a man in the house. The kids become attached, you get ticked, and out the door the boyfriend goes. What does that teach your children about relationships? You’re their primary role model.”
    “I don’t want to lose my boyfriend.”
    “Would you rather lose your son?”
    Silence on the other end of the line, then, “I’m doing that, aren’t I?”
    “I’m afraid so.”
    “Dr. Fox, I don’t have good luck with men.”
    “But that’s another call, isn’t it? Lynn, your son needs you, and kids—especially teenagers—don’t need this complication in their lives. I thank you for your call. Regina, welcome to the real world.”
    “Dr. Fox, I listen to you every day and I just love your show.”
     “Thank you.”
     “I read your books, too. I’ve got both of them.”
     “Good. Why did you call?”
     “I’ve got this problem with my husband.”
     “Yes?”
     “He cheated on me with someone at work.”
     “And how do you know this?”
     “I found the letters from his girlfriend.”
     “You asked him about the letters?”
     “Oh, yes, he admitted that he ‘slipped up’ is how he put it.”
     “Are there children involved?”
     “Yes.”
     “Then we need to do something to save this marriage, don’t we? Is he still carrying on the affair?”
     “He broke it off when I found out.”
     “That’s always a good sign. Will he go for counseling?”
     “I haven’t asked.”
     “If you don’t ask, you’ll never know, and if you won’t ask, you might be the problem, not your husband.”
     “Me? I’m not the one who cheated.”
     “No, but you might want to use this affair to beat up your husband. I say let it go and work on your marriage. Your children need their parents together. Barry, you’re on the air with Dr. Jean Fox.”
     “Dr. Fox, my brother’s married a divorced woman and now she’s letting him boss around her child.”
     “Your brother bosses the child around how?”
     “You know, no elbows on the table, sit up straight, and there’s rooms you can’t bring food into.”
     “Barry, there are rooms in the house you can’t bring food into.”
     “But is it my brother’s place to tell the little girl what to do? This is the woman’s child.”
     “Sounds to me like your sister-in-law got just what she wanted, someone to help discipline her child.”
     “But it’s not right—”
     “It’s not any of your business. Stay out of it.”
     “I don’t think—”
     “It doesn’t matter what you think. This is between your brother and his wife.”
     “But that’s not right.”
     “Barry, why can’t you stop meddling in your brother’s affairs?”
     “I’m not meddling—”
     “Barry, I can’t talk to you if you’re not going to be honest with me. Valerie, welcome to the real world. What can I do for you?”
     “Dr. Fox, my son is twelve and he wants to call me by my first name.”
     “It’s a rite of passage, showing you that he’s not a kid any longer.”
     “But I don’t want him to call me by my first name.”
     “Then tell him what the penalty is. Tell him what you’re going to take away if he continues to do this. Do you have a husband living at home?”
     “Yes.”
     “Perhaps your husband should take your son aside and tell him he’s being disrespectful to his mother. Will he do that?”
     “I think so.”
     “If you’re not sure, perhaps the problem is with your husband and not with your son.”
     “Dr. Fox, you don’t think it’s right for children to call adults by their first names, do you?”
     “My daughter started calling me by my first name when she was twelve.”
     “What did you do?”
     “Sent her to her room and told her not to come out until she was going to be more respectful.”

* * *

     A taxi waited in a stand of trees; an empty picnic bench sat alongside the taxi as did a trash can. Mothers, daughters, and wives often sat in the shade of those trees waiting for visiting hours to begin. Sometimes a woman would come and sit and just stare at the joint. That had to be a real thrill.
     But The Woman never came. If The Woman was smart she’d be long gone. If she was real smart, she would’ve disappeared from the face of the earth.
     “Taxi, Mister?” The cabbie was some kind of foreign guy, dark skin, black hair, skinny frame. Raymond figured he could break the guy in half. After all, he was the prison’s arm-wrestling champ. Just another way to pass the time.
     “How much?”
     “Twenty bucks.”
     “I’ll walk.”
     As Lister went by, the cabbie asked, “How long you in for, Mister?”
     “Twenty.” Outside the wall, a twenty-year stretch became a badge of honor, not the grind it’d been inside.
     The cabbie whistled. “Never picked up a twenty-year fare before. It is ten miles to the bus station. Ten bucks and I will drop you at the door.”
     “I’ll still walk,” said Raymond, moving away.
     “I have a living to make, Mister.”
     “Not off me you don’t.”
     “Ten bucks. My last offer. You walk, you net five.”
     Raymond stopped and stared at the funny-looking guy.
Twenty years inside the joint had made Raymond wary. Inside, he’d plenty of time to wait and see what the other con wanted. Outside, maybe it was best to ask a few questions.
     “What you mean, net five?”
     The little man glanced at the sky. “Hot day and a dusty road. You’ll have to have that new brown suit cleaned when you get to town or it’ll look bad when you go looking for a job. State of Florida gives you a new suit. You should protect your investment.”
     So Raymond got into the cab. Not only had he learned to listen, but he had learned a thing or two about investments. Everything Raymond owned had been sold by his sister and salted away in a savings account while he’d been inside. His sister said she did it to give him hope. Car sold for a couple of thousand, pickup for another thousand, several guns and rifles, electronic goods, all netting close to five grand, now worth almost twenty through something called certificates of deposit.
     He couldn’t wait to get his hands on that fucking
money! Twenty thousand would go a long way in finding The Woman and making her life miserable. If he ever got away from this damned place. The funny-looking little guy couldn’t get the cab started. He twisted the key again and again, but no sound came from the engine, not even a whine.
     “Sorry. Been having trouble all week.”
     Raymond was out of the car and signaling for the hood to be unlatched before the driver knew it.
     “Raise the hood,” ordered Raymond.
     The driver sprung the release, then climbed out and followed him to the front of the cab. “Maybe I should call dispatch. The boss—he don’t like people fooling around with the vehicles.”
     Raymond grabbed the cables and twisted the
connections of the battery, first one way, then the other. Whitish-gray flakes fell off as he fiddled with one connection, then the other.
     He stood back. “Now try it.”
     The little man stared at him.
     “Well, you want me to do it for you?”
     “No, no. I’ll do it.”
     The cabbie hustled back into the cab and cranked the engine. It turned over, and Raymond slammed the hood, then joined the driver in the front seat.
     “Thanks, Mister. I don’t make any money with the car in the garage.”
     Raymond eyed the man. “Worth a ride into town?”
     “Sorry, Mister, but they send me here to pick up a fare, they expect me to bring one back.”
     Raymond took a breath and let it out. In his lap his
hands opened and closed, over and over again.
     Watching those hands, the driver said, “I hope you understand. I could get in big trouble.”
      Raymond looked at the prison and the life he was leaving behind. His breathing became more controlled and his hands fell still. “I understand, sport. Believe me, I understand.”
      The driver opened his mouth to say something, glanced at those huge hands, and decided against it. He put the cab into gear and started down the road.

* * *

     Tony Nipper stuck his head in Jean Fox’s office. Nipper ran the station that originated the Dr. Jean Fox Show. It was Nipper’s job to keep the talent happy and Jean Fox was the goose that had laid the golden egg, a real find in talent, a natural.
      Fox sat behind a table in French Provincial style. Around the room, the straight-back chairs, credenza, and miscellaneous pieces were also in French Provincial. On the walls hung paintings by Fox’s daughter, a good-looking girl, but much too headstrong for Tony Nipper’s taste. Nipper thought Fox used the table/desk to her advantage with those long legs of hers. Some said Fox should color her salt and pepper hair, but Tony thought the hair, that narrow face of hers, and the long legs gave the woman the haughty look—one she cultivated. Today Fox wore a soft white dress slit to her knees with platinum necklace, earrings, and matching watch.
     “What you need, Doc?”
     “The production values, Tony. It’s always the production values.”
     “You sound great,” said Nipper, not taking a seat.
     Using her fingers, Jean ticked off the following: “I’ve got an engineer, a screener, and a gopher. It’s not working. Kyle is strung so tight, I think he’s going to explode.”
     Nipper shrugged. “He looks okay to me.”
     “His wife is worried about him.”
     “Don’t worry about the wives. They’re always complaining about something.” Nipper saw the look on his talent’s face. “But I’ll check into it. Actually, Doc, I’ve been worried about you.”
     “Why is that?”
     “You seem a little tense. Anything on your mind? I’m always here to talk to. Nothing leaves the room.”
     Jean smiled. “Would you like to address some wedding
invitations?”
     Nipper’s hands came up in surrender. “I wouldn’t be any good at that. You’ve seen my handwriting.”
     “Thanks for being so concerned, but just check on the extra engineer. And this time, while you’re looking, see if you can find a woman.”
     “Rudy’s the only guy on your team. You don’t want us called sexist, do you?”
     “My show’s the only one with two women working in support.”
     “Three with you,” Nipper said with a smile.
     “But I’m not support, am I?”
     “You’re sure not. You’re sure not.” Nipper headed for the door. “I’ll look into it for you.”
     “Thank you, Tony.”
     “Always glad to be of service.”
     After Nipper left, Jean sat there, staring at the desktop. She finally opened the center drawer and took out a folded sheet of paper. With trembling hands, she read her attorney’s well-known scrawl.

     Jean,
        Raymond Lister has been paroled and will
     leave prison Wednesday of next week.
                            Take care,
                            Harry

     The letter had been written a week ago. Today was Wednesday. Jean tore up the letter and threw it in her French Provincial wastebasket.
      No! I won’t be intimidated by that man. I was victimized by him once before but never again. Over the intercom came the voice of a young woman. “Vernon Pinckney is ready. And Peggy has picked out another dress. She wants you to stop by Rich’s after you have lunch with Vernon. You’re to give her a call.”
     The voice laughed. “What number dress is this?”
     “Don’t ask.” Jean felt a smile fill her face. Yes, she could handle this, as she had everything else. Raymond Lister belonged to the past and there Raymond Lister would remain.