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  Aaron takes the weight bar from me and sets it in its brackets. He has been spotting me as I push myself. My muscles are singing, sweat is peeking out and rolling down my chest and the back of my neck. My scent rises to meet my nostrils, and I know my deodorant is talking too much and telling a few of my secrets. If I keep this up it will tell everything it knows. I would be embarrassed if he weren’t sweating just as hard as I am and starting to smell just as bad.

  “You pressed one-twenty,” he says, reaching for the bottle of water sweating all over the floor by his foot. He takes a long pull and sighs. “Making progress, and progress is always good. You beat down yet?”

  I roll to a sitting position and gather my locks from around my shoulders, use the sweatband on my wrist to make a ponytail high up on my head. I allow myself one good stretch, and then I lean over and curl my fingers around ten-pound hand weights. “Little bit more. I’m loving the sting. I needed this today.”

  He leaves the room and I hear the refrigerator door open and close. More water. Probably why his skin is as clear as a baby’s and even-toned everywhere I look, which is most places. When we work out together he wears loose sweat shorts and wife beaters. Sometimes just the shorts, and his chest is nice to look at. He seems unaware that he is a black Adonis, seems unaware of my eyes as they follow him around his apartment.

  I almost tell him to find a shirt, and then I catch myself. This is his space and I am the interloper. I close my eyes and keep lifting, my concentration deep.

  The heat at my back shifts and intensifies, bringing me out of my trance of pleasure and putting me on alert. I stiffen and suck in a breath as his thighs hug mine from behind. His chest cradles my back and his arms come around mine. “Aaron,” I say.

  “Relax. Your form is a little off.” His mouth is near my ear and then his hands are on my thighs, easing them farther apart. I am like a block of granite, unwilling to yield and wanting him to back off. “Lena?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Relax, okay?” His fingers squeeze my thighs, relax, and then squeeze again. “Feel that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tension. Resistance. Let it go. You’re working against yourself. The only thing that should be tense is this right here. Feel that?” His hands move from my thighs to my biceps and stay there. “Your thighs are straining, which means you need to reduce your weight. You’re taking too much.”

  I lean over and switch to eight-pounders. Sit back against his chest and start over. “Better?”

  “You tell me. Are your thighs tensing up?” He puts his hands there to feel for himself and makes a satisfied sound. “Pretend you’re pulling through mud. Yeah, like that. And sit up straight. Good.”

  He gets up and leaves me alone again, and I breathe a sigh of relief and flow like water into what I do next. I spread my thighs wider, cross the weights over my chest and bend, rotate and circle my upper body slowly. He comes back and catches me looking like I am about to kiss the bench and sits back down behind me. He watches me help the definition of my chest along and leans back with me as I lean and support my spine. At first we move like Siamese twins, and then we move like shadows.

  I roll forward, feel his palm on the small of my back, where my tee shirt exposes me and freeze. Silence greets me as I sit up and feel his breath heavy on the back of my neck. It whispers to me, tells me that he knows something, but what, I am not fully certain.

  I wait.

  “How much time did you do, Lena?” Aaron finally says and it is a done deal. He knows, and I know how he knows. He is a writer, a researcher, and he has seen the mark of the beast before.

  “Eight years,” I say and hold my breath. On the small of my back is a telling tattoo, an hourglass filled with black sand that escapes from one chamber into another, signifying the passing of time at a snail’s pace. What is sand in one chamber becomes tears as it trickles down, and there are nine tear drops, one for every year I was imprisoned, and the last one for the year of parole release that I was finally granted. “Eight years, but it might as well have been eighty.”

  I put the weights back on the floor, run my hand around my neck, and wait for him to tell me to get out of his space. To tell me that I stink and he can smell me.

  “Interesting.”

  “How so?” I don’t know whether or not to be insulted. His voice tells me nothing.

  “Just is. Explains a lot.”

  “Like what?”

  “A lot. Like why you’re doing the kind of work you’re doing and not the kind of work you should be doing. It explains why you count to ten before you turn a corner, like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop because you just know it will.”

  “It always does. The tattoo told on me, huh?”

  He makes a sound like a yes and then gives me an umph, umph, umph. I don’t turn around and look, but I know he is shaking his head. “I contributed to a story on prison life a few years back. Saw a tattoo like yours during a prison tour. It was an enlightening experience, seeing the way women cope with being in prison.”

  “Bet you would’ve never suspected that I was hiding a criminal past in my closet,” I say, giving him my profile.

  “Are you a prior and persistent offender?”

  “No, just a one-time breakout convict. I’ve been arrested once in my whole life, but when I do it, I do it big.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I’m not ready to tell you that yet.”

  “Tell me this then,” Aaron says, calm as still water. “Tell me about your family.”

  “You know I have a sister. She lives here in the city.”

  “No, I mean the one you had while you were in prison.”

  “Who said I had a family in prison?” He is treading on sacred ground and making me uncomfortable. Answering his question will bring him further into the place where the core of me dwells. It is a solitary place and it holds all of my deepest secrets, my deepest fears. Admission is not open to the general public, and I haven’t decided if he is anything other than that.

  “Did you?”

  “I’m starting to see why you went into journalism. You don’t have a problem asking nosy questions.”

  “You want me to back up?” Everything about Aaron withdraws. I feel him physically edge away, feel his breath become lighter on the back of my neck, and hear his mind begin retracting its tentacles from mine.

  I say nothing for the longest time and then I say, “My mommy’s name was Denny and my daddy’s name was Lou. And I had sisters, women who were like sisters to me. We were closer than any blood family. We’d do anything for each other. That’s what I regret most about being on the outside, that I had to leave them on the inside.”

  “You can’t keep in touch with them?”

  “Doesn’t work like that. Once you’re out, you’re out—and I’m out.”

  “You trying to go back?”

  “Never.”

  “What did you do, Lena?”

  “No. Don’t ask me that. I told you I was in and I told you about my family. Okay? Don’t ask me that.”

  “Did you rob a bank?”

  “No.”

  “Too many DUIs?”

  “No.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Hell no.”

  “Child abuse?”

  I jump up from the bench and look around for my keys. His curiosity is natural, but it still pisses me off. The last thing I want to become to him is a source of entertainment, a spectacle any more than I already am.

  “Hey, hold up a minute,” he says, hooking an arm around my waist and stopping me in my tracks. He eases me back to a sitting position and grabs my eyes. “Forgive a brotha for being in awe of you, okay? You seem pretty well put together for somebody who just got out of prison. I guess I’m trying to reconcile what I see with what I’ve heard. Was it as hard as they say it is?”

  “Probably ten times harder.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “You know how a Vietnam vet can
’t put the words together to tell you about the action he’s seen over there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s the same for an ex-con. Ain’t no words in the English language to describe what prison is like, so I can’t tell you because the words don’t exist.”

  Aaron looks at me long and hard. “That bad?”

  “That bad.”

  Chapter Ten

  The flashing lights take me back in time. Blue, red and white, all swirled together, looking pretty against the night sky, but still making my heart skip a beat. Suddenly, I feel the need to get home as fast as I can, to lock myself inside my apartment and close what is happening out of my mind. I turn my head and stare at Beige’s profile, see her sitting as still as a portrait, refusing to meet my eyes. I need her to look at me, so that I know everything will be okay, but she doesn’t.

  There is a tap on my window and I am afraid to move a muscle. I might be shot if I go to press a button and lower my window, but the officer standing outside my door might break the window if he keeps banging on it with the metal flashlight he is holding. It is a toss-up, and I eventually opt to chance a bullet rather than risk Vicky’s wrath.

  “Yes, officer?” I say as the window clears my mouth and disappears completely. He shines strong light in my eyes, and I turn my face away from the abuse. Beige is next, but he is forced to study her profile.

  “Are you aware you were going forty in a twenty mile per hour zone?”

  “Um . . . no, I didn’t know that. I guess I wasn’t paying as much attention as I needed to be.”

  He looks around the inside of the car. There are grocery bags on the backseat, a Target bag full of shit, shower and shave stuff on the floor behind my seat, and a box of paperback books that I bought earlier from a flea market on the floor behind Beige’s seat. We look exactly like what we are, two people on their way home after shopping. One of them driving twenty miles over the speed limit.

  “Let me see your license and registration,” the officer barks. Beige goes to retrieve my purse from the floor between her feet, and he puts her in the spotlight. “Keep your hands where I can see them, young lady.”

  “She was getting my purse,” I butt in. I don’t like that he snaps at my baby. Don’t like it at all. “It’s on the floor and the registration papers are in the glove compartment.” At least I hope they are. I want this to be over like yesterday.

  I hand him my driver’s license and the registration paperwork for Vicky’s car, watch him walk back to his patrol car, and let out a long stream of nervous breath. I am like millions of other people in the world: I don’t like cops. But my reasons go beyond having superficial issues with authority.

  “This will be over and done with in a minute or two,” I say to Beige. “Damn, I hope Vicky didn’t buy this piece of shit from Bey-Bey the crackhead.” She giggles and I feel better about what is happening. I feel like an average, run of the mill Joe being stopped by the police. The urge to throw the door open and take off running lessens.

  The cop comes back and I think Beige and I are about to be set free. I give him a mildly expectant look and get a frown in return. “I’m going to need you to step out of the car.”

  “Why? Is something wrong?”

  “I’m not going to repeat myself again, lady. Get your ass out of the car. Now.”

  I’m not getting out fast enough for him, and he grabs my arm and hustles me toward the back of the car roughly. He spins me around and takes my head to the trunk. I feel cold metal against my cheek and wonder what the hell is going on. He has his hand pressed against the side of my head to hold me in place, so raising my head to look around is out of the question.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Where’d you get the car?”

  “It’s my sister’s. Please, what’s going on?”

  “I’m asking the questions here, all right?” His nightstick makes contact with the backs of my knees. “Spread your legs. Come on, you know the drill. Spread ’em. How long you been out?”

  “S–Six months,” I manage to say. The lining of my throat is raw and cold now. “Almost seven months. We weren’t doing anything wrong. Trust me, this is my sister’s car.”

  “Is that your sister in the passenger seat?”

  “My daughter.”

  Another cruiser screeches to a stop near us, lights spinning all over the place, and another officer hops out and comes toward us. My keeper motions him closer and tells him to get Beige out of the car, to shake her down. I stop being afraid for myself and become afraid for my child.

  “She’s a child,” I say, but no one is listening.

  “Don’t look like no child to me,” the other officer says. I roll my eyes up in my head and see him marching Beige around to my side of the car, making her watch what is happening to me. They make her spread her legs and submit to a body search. My breath is humming in my throat as I watch alien hands glide along her legs, smooth over her ass and linger a second too long. A hum turns into a moan as those hands go near her breasts. She still won’t look me in the eye.

  “She’s a child,” I repeat, ready to commit murder. Again.

  Her keeper orders her to sit down on the curb and to keep her mouth shut. It is my turn to talk, to explain why I thought I should partake in liberties that others take for granted. Shopping is as normal and nonthreatening as it gets, but apparently I have no right to it.

  I answer the questions hurled at me. “We were out shopping.” Then, “Yes, I’m sure this is my sister’s car. Call her. I’ll give you her number.” Then, “No, I’m not high or drunk. I don’t drink or do drugs. Never have.” And then, “No, there’s nothing in my bags I’m not supposed to have.” And then, “Yes, I have a parole officer and I keep all my appointments.” They radio in to dispatch and have the owner of the monotone voice dial the number I give them. They check with Vicky regarding the whereabouts of her vehicle and I am cleared. They should let me go, but they don’t.

  Batman and Robin move from bad to worse. They are angry because I have no outstanding warrants and my breath doesn’t reek of alcohol. My box of books is dumped on the sidewalk and every page flipped through. My groceries are tossed here and there, right along with the books. A loaf of bread is stepped on, a dozen eggs dropped without a second thought. They rifle through a box of tampons, rip open a package of toilet paper and then dump both of our purses on the ground in the space between the cars. Beige’s lipgloss rolls away and disappears down a sewer drain.

  They find nothing out of the ordinary, and I am slapped on my ass for my trouble, given a ticket for speeding, and allowed to come away from the trunk of the car and stand upright. Finally, Beige meets my eyes, and what I see there makes me feel like shit.

  “This is my fault,” I say after the officers have driven away and left us to clean up their mess. I throw food back into bags without worrying about economics and logistics. My hands shake. “This is all my fault. I should’ve let Vicky do the shopping and this shit never would’ve happened. What the fuck was I thinking?”

  She helps me gather my books and takes the box from me, puts it on the backseat while I find the twelfth roll of Charmin and toss it inside the car. I will have to go back to the store and buy more salmon steaks. They are Aaron’s favorite, and I promised to broil them for him tomorrow. My thoughts are scattered and out of sync. I think about Beige’s lipgloss and feel tears hit the back of my throat. It is such a small thing, but in this moment, it is everything.

  I see the confusion on her face, and my eyes slide closed for the space of five seconds.

  “Bey, I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ll buy you more lipgloss. Friday, as soon as I get paid, I’ll stop somewhere and buy you more. I’m . . . I don’t know what . . . This is my fault.”

  I start the car but we don’t move. I can’t make myself shift into drive and give the damn thing some gas. I can’t make my hands and feet cooperate with my brain. I am scared and shaking like a leaf. I’m so thoroughly fucked up I can’t
seem to get it together. Everything is a blur. I can’t see through the tears standing in my eyes. Can’t stand the fact that they won’t stay there. They have to betray me and spill down my cheeks.

  “What the fuck was I thinking?” This is where I’m stuck like a broken record. I fall back against my seat and stare out the window, see a group of people standing on a corner, waiting for act two to begin. Rubberneckers looking for their nightly entertainment, and unfortunately, we are it. I will always be someone’s entertainment, I think. The epitome of an ex-con trying to live a normal life and blend in, and doing a lousy job of it.

  I am not the woman I was eight years ago. A computer guru, making good money and being middle class. A concerned and attentive mother, dragging tired bones into school houses to meet teachers and talk grades and performance. Lecturing my motor-mouth child about talking too much in class. Cooking a balanced meal every night and giving baths. I am none of that. What I am now is a convict, and I will never be able to escape the consequences.

  “This is what it’s going to be like from now on,” I tell Beige. “This is my life.”

  “Because you’ve been to prison,” she says, and it is not a question.

  “Exactly. Because I’ve been to prison. I can’t even vote in the next election.”

  “Didn’t you know?”

  I give her my eyes. “What?”

  “I mean, I’m just saying, Mom. If you knew this was how it might be, then why did you do what you did?”

  I have no answer. I am speechless, and we stare at each other for the longest time. If I could talk, I would attempt to answer her question. But I can’t, and the cause of my sudden deaf, dumb and blind state is easy to diagnose.

  She called me Mom.

  He thinks he has worked a miracle in the kitchen, and he wants to show me the fruits of his labor. Says he wants to give me a treat, for all the delicious food I cook and he consumes greedily. I laugh and tell him that he does eat faster than anybody I’ve ever seen, but repayment is unnecessary. He lets me use his workout equipment whenever I want, which is several times a week. If anything, I should be upping the ante on the food I cook for him. I am not feeling taken advantage of, I say and laugh.