trips to jail: drive times

…part two…

circa 1952

From downtown I drove west, up First Ave. toward River Road. This route always takes me past the street with the house where my dad was born. It’s the home we all, in a sense, came from — Dad, his many siblings, my brothers and me, Daniel.

I still didn’t know if I could return to the jail to visit my cousin. My stamina is never abundant, and the warm day had grown long.

My emotions told me I needed to go see Daniel. Of course. Several reasons came to mind, but one was most compelling. I knew I should go for the sake of Mary. She was a woman Daniel had asked me to find, the day last weekend when I accepted his phone call. Mary’s address was possibly this or that, Daniel said, but he knew it was on a certain main road, and he described her house and its location. “She’s a lady who’s always been kind to me,” Daniel had said. “I’d appreciate it if you can tell her I’m all right and ask her to keep praying.”

It was one of those rare times I felt nudged to try something ridiculous. I didn’t ponder how foolish I might look knocking on doors until I discovered Mary had moved or what have you. I drove along the road Daniel had suggested, following his remembered directions, and there, first try, I found Mary. A few years older than I, with more life tragedies behind her, she invited me, a stranger who could have been anyone, into her home. She’s been burned somewhat, as I have, by Daniel’s broken lifestyle, but she still cares for him, as do I.

Mary gave me her address to pass to Daniel and her phone number, so I could call if he and I made further contact. Mary had lost a son, years ago, to drugs and prison. She needed me to do my best.

At my house, I ate a carrot. I changed into cooler clothes. I told my family I would try, and if I succeeded, I’d pick up milkshakes on the way back here. They wished me well.

Returning downtown, I chose the street that runs behind the Amtrak station. I’ve always called this way the Grandma Edna shortcut. She directed me along it many times, years before the city updates arrived with delicate trees on little islands. Grandma Edna, my dad’s mother, raised Daniel, or tried to, when his parents weren’t able. Her story overall was a series of bizarre adventures, or maybe she was just quirky.

The one problem with Grandma Edna’s shortcut came home to me in force as I heard a train whistle. On this route, you avoid traffic but can get stuck at crossings. I checked right. Sure enough, red lights flashed and bells clanged. I might be thwarted by a long wait, missing the 6:10 check-in by the sheriffs, missing Daniel. Oh, well. I had to keep going.

A locomotive with only three railcars passed, and I kept rolling.

My musings regarding my grandma’s heritage blended with a mellow, almost mourning sensation, as I drove past shops and cafés a few blocks from the jail. In slanting sunlight people were gathered around umbrella-shaded tables, golden, frothy liquid in their glasses. They smiled and sat forward on their chairs in conversation over plates of food.

I parked in the last empty space in front of the jailhouse. No loiterers this time, thankfully. I went inside.

to be continued…