“Well, I haven’t heard from her . . .”
“But won’t they have her new address at the Facility?”
“No . . . Once she’s out she’s out. The Facility doesn’t really have anything to do with her any more.”
“The thing is, she said she would write me every day, and I never got a single letter. I think the warden lady must have been keeping them from me.”
“Oh, I’m sure she wouldn’t have done that.”
“Then how come I didn’t get them?”
“Well, I don’t know. Do you know anybody else who might know her whereabouts?”
“I’ve tried everybody I can think of. That’s why I’m asking you.”
“Well, I can ask around at the Facility and see what I can find out.”
“Oh, Mrs. Carlsen, you don’t know how much I’d appreciate it.”
—
That night, Sharon and I were cuddling in bed. I told her about the call.
“Do you think that you and Dolores will do better than you and Sophie did?” she asked.
It was a question I really had to think about.
“This one time they had us picking up litter over on County Line Road. My team had already gotten picked up and we were pulling into a little strip mall where Dolores’s team was waiting. Some guy’s motorcycle had tipped over in the parking lot. He was like a bank teller or something, and it was a pretty big bike, and he couldn’t get it up again by himself. People were standing there watching, the girls on one side, some people on the other. The guy was doing his best, but it was too heavy. A couple of the girls were starting to make fun of him.
“Dolores went over to give the guy a hand. She’s not that big, you know, and she was wearing her orange vest and everything. The guard lady started yelling at her. But she just went over and helped the guy get his motorcycle back up again.”
It was kind of a lame answer, I guess, but it seemed enough for Sharon. She didn’t say anything more, just cuddled thoughtfully in my arms.
This was the second night we’d slept together and the second time we’d made love. The second time she’d cuddled after in my arms. Dolores and I had had to share a bed together for months, but we hadn’t made love once. She was still a virgin. I knew that Sharon knew that a fuck was just a fuck. But Dolores liked to do things her way. That was fine by me.
—
Mrs. Carlsen called back the next day.
“OK, Hector. So I’m afraid you were right about your letters. It turns out that all incoming mail gets sent downtown to be checked for contraband. Then it gets sent out again to the appropriate Facility. But the computer somehow sent all your mail to Potter instead of to Logan.”
“So maybe Dolores did write me after all.”
“I saw a letter for you from her today. It was in the pile being sent downtown.”
“God. What must she think that I never answered a single one.”
“You should be able to retrieve them, but you’ll have to go to Potter yourself to do it. But listen, Hector, I copied down her return address. Have you got a pen?”
It was an address in Alderville, one of those little towns you hear about on the news sometimes. I wasn’t sure exactly where it was, but I knew it wasn’t too far away.
“Oh Mrs. Carlsen! You don’t know what this means to me!”
“I’m so sorry about the mixup. That blasted computer.”
“Well, yeah, but it was because of the computer that I got to meet Dolores in the first place. And you too, for that matter. But you’ve fixed everything now. You’re terrific! I’m sorry I can’t be in your class any more. But listen, if there’s ever anything I can do for you, anything at all, all you have to do is ask. OK?”
“Well, give Dolores my best. And, Hector, there is one thing you can do for me. I want you to keep on being the kind, responsible young man that I know you to be. Will you do that for me?”
“Oh sure, Mrs. Carlsen. You kind of taught us that in class. But, I mean, you know, if there’s ever anything I can do to help you . . .”
“Well, I’ve got your number, Hector. I won’t forget your offer.”
—
That night in bed I told Sharon about the call.
“So you found her,” she said, in her cousinly, I’m-so-happy-for-you voice.
I felt bad that things were going right for me, but still not yet for her. I wanted to say something that would make everything better. But I’m not much good at that. “You’ve been such a good friend,” I told her. “I can’t tell you what these last couple days have meant to me. I wish I didn’t have to go.”
“Oh don’t say that,” she said. “I’m glad you stopped by. The last couple days have been really nice for me too. I was always so jealous of Sophie. So don’t feel bad. I’m just glad your heart is big enough to share.”
—
The next morning I took an early bus out to Potter. Or Bizarro Logan you might as well call it—the same institutional linoleum, the same metal desks, the same bureaucratic runaround. The same forgotten traffic cones and toner cartridges in the storage room, I wouldn’t be surprised. The same warehouses and work crews on the other side of the fence, the only difference being that they were all guys, instead of one guy and all the rest girls.
I explained the situation. They told me it was impossible. I showed them my discharge paper. They said it must have been a mistake. I asked if they had any mail with my name on it. They said they couldn’t disclose that information. I showed them my damn photo ID. They looked me up in the computer and said I was no longer an inmate. I asked them what I was supposed to do, go out and rob a bank? They said the matter would have to go before a judge. I told them it was a judge who’d sent me to the wrong facility in the first place. They gave me a form to fill out.