Margaret Sexton: A Kind of Freedom

“Hey, T.C.,” she said. She sounded all right too.

“Hey, Licia.”

They didn’t talk for a while; there was just something about the air between them, and when he went a long time without experiencing it, it commanded awe just to behold it.

“I don’t know what to say,” he said finally. “I’m so sorry, but I know that’s not good enough.”

“I know,” she said. “I know.” She sighed.

“You deserve better than this. You deserve better than me,” he added.

“I know that too,” she said. She paused. “And I’m going to get it. But our son, now that’s a different story. Miss Jackie said you don’t want to see him?” She paused, waiting for T.C. to answer, but he didn’t know what to say.

Finally, he muttered, “I just don’t want him to see me like that, Licia.”

“Oh, I get it, I do, but don’t do that, T.C. I mean, I hear what you’re saying, but think about it, think about him, think about everything you went through not having a daddy.”

“I didn’t need that bastard.”

“Oh? Well, I’m not saying he was a great man, but if he could have gotten it together for you and made you part of his life, I can’t see how that would have been a bad thing. Maybe I deserve better, but there’s no better our child could do than his own daddy.”

She paused again. “Can you at least think about it for me, T.C.?”

He nodded before he spoke, he was too choked up. Then he croaked out a hacked-up yes .

“Good. Well, I gotta get going, but you doing all right?”

“Yeah, I’m all right, you know it’s all relative.”

She laughed. “Well, I’m glad. Miss Jackie says you look good. I hope you feeling that way too. I’m going to put her back on, okay?”

“All right. Alicia, you take care.”

But she had already passed the phone.

He could hear Malik crying in the background, and his mama said she needed to tend to him. T.C. set the phone down, imagined seeing his son in the waiting area down the hall, staring across from him, or maybe T.C. would have a chance to hold him.

As the day approached, he got excited, dapping off every inmate he passed, retelling the birth story, bragging about how alert the baby had been even at a few months, how he had the same nose and eyes as his daddy, how he was already saying words, Mama and MawMaw.

Then a couple days before the visit, T.C.’s mood shifted without his consent. The thing was, he’d never thought he was good enough to father someone as perfect as his son, and then he’d gone and proven that by getting himself locked up. Now he had a constant, gnawing reminder of his own inadequacy, and that pain threatened to eat him alive. He almost called his mother to cancel the visit, but he remembered Licia, Licia who had been so patient and forgiving, who had asked only this one thing of him, who had thought it would be good for their child, and maybe she was right.

He gave one of the inmates his brownies so he’d twist his locks the morning of the visit. T.C. was glad for the activity. It plucked him out of the dread that would have consumed him; it distracted him from the image of his son lying against his jail clothes.

“What’s the matter, Lewis? People are usually happy to go see their family,” the white CO said as they walked.

“I am,” he said. “Just nervous, that’s all.” He tried to smile but it didn’t come out right.

When he got to the door, he saw his mother. She was leaning over to wipe Malik’s mouth where he’d drooled. T.C. could still just back out, and she wouldn’t even know he had seen them, but he wouldn’t have his son thinking he’d been abandoned.

He walked over. She stood up to hug him, then when he sat down, she plopped Malik in his lap. The baby didn’t cry the way T.C. expected him to.

“He goes to everybody, huh?” T.C. asked.

“Not really,” she smiled. “But he’s going to you.”

T.C. didn’t know what to say to him. Before, when he was on the outside, he’d just talk in baby talk, lift him up to the sky until he squealed, but he felt funny doing that here, now, unfit somehow.

His mama just talked like she did, and he used that time to examine his son. The baby seemed to be doing the same back.

Aunt Ruby had a new friend, a man in his fifties, and Mama had heard Aunt Ruby say she’d never known love until now. MawMaw wasn’t looking good. Mama was thinking about bringing her up next time she came, if she was doing better. It would have been too much this time, with the baby too.

“Oh, but she did send you one of her jelly cakes. For your birthday. You should get it any day now. Make sure you call her and tell her you enjoyed it.”

Malik started to fuss, and Jackie stood. “I got his bottle right here. They only let me bring in two.” She handed it to T.C., and he popped the cap off and pushed the nipple into the baby’s mouth. Malik leaned back as he rested, let his head fall into the crook of T.C.’s elbow. T.C. smoothed his palm over his son’s thick eyebrows, marveled at his eyelashes, how much the baby looked like him, yet he was his own distinct being. T.C. bent down and kissed him.

When the baby finished eating, T.C. lifted him to his shoulder and burped him.

“Like riding a bicycle huh? You never forget,” his mama asked.

T.C. laughed. “Naw, I guess not.” T.C. kept him propped up there on his shoulder for a while, rubbing his back.

“Well, I need to get him back by four. That’s when his mama gets off work,” she said.

“Okay.” T.C. sat the baby on his knees again. “Daddy will see you next time, lil’ man. Daddy was so happy to see you. Daddy loves you, okay?” He handed him off, gripped his mama to him.

“Thanks, Ma,” he said, “for everything.”

Walking back to his cell was as hard as he feared it would be. As euphoric as he’d felt holding his son, the feeling had been dug out when he gave him back, compounded by his fear that bringing Malik to this hellhole even for a visit had somehow bound the kid to the place. No, he told himself. This life wasn’t acceptable for his seed, and T.C. would do whatever he needed to do to ensure that.

He ducked into his cell, lay down on his bed, remembering the way his son had looked up at him, with so much innocence and trust.

Malik didn’t know who his daddy was yet. And T.C. supposed he didn’t know who he was yet either. In his son’s eyes he saw so many possibilities. Maybe Malik would know him to be a warrior, someone who turned the odds on their head. Maybe he would see him as just a good man, and, yeah, he’d made some mistakes, but he loved his family, he was there for his son. For a second, T.C. could see himself through the same lens. He bathed in that vision, let it wash over him, closed his eyes. The longer he dwelled inside it, the more he could imagine it being real.

Winter 1945

Seven months in, Evelyn wore a big coat, but she still thought Renard might walk right past her. She’d been at the station longer than she expected. The train was late pulling in, and she’d had to wait for the white passengers to disembark before she saw Renard hustle out of the baggage car and down the steps. When she caught sight of him, she called his name, softly at first, then when he didn’t hear her, she stretched her voice past the point she was most comfortable. He turned toward her from where he’d already advanced near the station lobby, in his crisp and fitted uniform and his hat that made him seem like a different man altogether.

She forced herself to look at his eyes; his eyes were what would tell her how he really perceived her, thirty pounds heavier, breathing hard, leaning back and wobbling, with the weight of his child inside her. When she caught them, she thought she caught a glimpse of his soul too, that it was that which pressed his eyes against his sockets so hard it seemed as if they might break through.