Devour, p.10
Devour, page 10
“It’s only for a couple of hours. I have to take care of a personal matter, but I’ll be back in time for the dinner rush.”
“Not a problem,” she said. “Anything I can help with? On the personal front.”
He wanted to say something, but felt it best to keep it close, especially if it did not work out as well as he hoped.
“Not really, but thank you.”
“Okay. And don’t worry about a thing…I’ve got you.”
Michael was nearly to the door when he thought of something, turned, and called out, “Jasmine?”
She poked her head out from the wine cellar. “Yes?”
Heading back, he ran several lines in his head, trying to figure the most subtle way to ask. Looking into her eyes, he could not imagine doing anything to hurt her.
“Look, I’ll share later what this is all about, but no one’s in danger or anything like that, I, uh, here’s the thing—”
“Michael, just spit it out.”
“This thing…” he waved between them, “Between us, it’s good. I mean, it has the potential to be, you know, I think really good.”
Grinning, she shook her head.
“Okay, right. In black and white? I genuinely care about you. Immensely, in fact. Thing is, I just need to, you know, get some of my life stuff straightened out, and…”
She took his hand. “Michael, we’re both big kids and know what’s at stake. You have much more responsibility than I do right now, and you need to keep your head in the game. So, let’s do this for both of our sakes. Do what you must. And given we’re not sure how long that may take, let me, you know, go on and continue my thing. Whatever that is. When the time comes, as I imagine it will, we’ll both have handled things. In the best way possible.”
“Good,” he said, letting out a deep breath. “Wish I had said all that as eloquently as you. It’s just, well, it’s been so long. Geez, could I be any more of a nerd?”
She playfully pushed him. “I don’t know about that, but I do know where my heart lies, and I just want to be protective.”
Leaning close, he kissed her cheek. “Thank you for being so incredible.”
“You’re welcome. Now, get outta here. I’ve got a restaurant to run.”
20
Face Off
An hour later, Michael arrived at the front gate of San Quentin. He had driven past it for years without giving it much thought. Standing in the front parking lot, he was taken aback at the condition of the building. He had imagined it being bigger.
After passing through a litany of gates and guards, signing documents and decrees, he was badged and booked as a guest of Warden Dalton. The two officers on duty looked at him like he had just robbed a bank.
Just then, he recognized a man coming down the hall. When the two guards saw Dalton approaching, they straightened up like they had just been caught. One of them buzzed him through secured doors.
“Welcome, Michael, it’s great to see you again,” Dalton fawned with an outstretched hand. “What’s it been, twenty years?”
Michael could not believe this was the same “Fat Freddie” Dalton he knew from Fort Bragg, but the piercing blue eyes and thick brows were unmistakable. He was still in great shape—if not a few pounds extra.
“At least. No, I’m thinking more, I’ve been married that long, so, hell, it’s been closer to twenty-five. Geez, time flies.”
“No shit. Time’s certainly been good to you,” he said, patting Michael’s tight belly. “Looks like you’re still packing a six-pack. How do you do that being a Super Chef,” he laughed.
“More like a two-pack,” Michael smiled. “But you’re nice. And you can stop all the phony praise because I just cook fancy food for a living.”
Dalton’s eyes shifted. “I doubt that. C’mon and follow me. Someone’s going to be very happy to see you.”
Passing through more checkpoints, Dalton provided the standard chit chat: how was the drive, did you have any problems finding us, have you ever seen this or any other prison before. Michael’s answers were short and generic. Dalton wrapped with a personal touch, asking about a wife and kids.
An officer let them in as they arrived at the AC lobby. As the large steel bar door opened, Michael was shocked at his father’s condition. It was hard to believe it had been over 30 years since they had seen one another.
Since Sebastian was “dead” to him years ago, he was not surprised at his feeling no emotion. However, in the next instant, he felt a subconscious pain—like a pavlovian reflex—shoot through his body on a cellular level. Suppressing any physical cues, he attempted a pleasant, yet dishonest smile.
Free of chains or locks, Sebastian stood behind a table with four worn chairs.
Leaning into Sebastian’s face, Dalton released a sly grin. “Now, Sebastian, you play nice, okay?” Turning to Michael, he said, “And Michael, just have the guard buzz you out when you two gents are done. My assistant Baxter will come get you.”
Both men watched Dalton leave, and Michael turned to stare at a man he barely recognized or remembered. The old man looked pitiful. Even with a fresh shirt and thinning hair slicked back, he was clearly undernourished, looking closer to the end than the beginning.
They took a seat across from one another.
“It’s good to see you, Michael,” he said, suppressing a strong but sticky cough.
“Certainly a surprise,” Michael nodded. “After all this time.”
His father managed a tired smile. “I bet.”
“Hard to believe it’s been, what, 30 years?”
“33 this year. And I’ve spent most of them under this roof.”
Shaking his head, Michael suddenly felt the weight of the horror of this stranger’s life.
Sebastian’s eyes flicked to the tip of a tattoo that peeked from Michael’s shirtsleeve. He said nothing, turning his attention to a loose thread on his elbow’s bandage.
Michael tossed a chin toward his father’s arm. “What happened there?”
A half grin was slowly followed by a raised eyebrow and a shoulder shrug. “I fell.”
Michael failed to stifle a snort.
“Hey,” Sebastian coughed, “Better than cut myself shaving, right?”
“True.”
More silence. More fidgeting.
“Look, I told your warden I’d come visit you. For what reason I’m still trying to figure, but truthfully,” he hesitated, looking at his watch, “I’m not sure what I can do for you.”
Sebastian gave a defeated nod.
“I mean—and not to be an asshole—but you got yourself into this.”
“Michael, you don’t owe me anything. If anyone owes anybody…it’s me owing you. And with so little time left,” he coughed, “I just wanted you to know how sorry I am.” He stopped to catch his breath. “God, I’m so very sorry.”
Tears filled his sagging lids.
“I know,” Michael said quietly.
“I doubt you do, Son. I mean, I’m truly and deeply sorry. For the way I treated you and your brother. The way I treated your mother. For all of it. I was a selfish shit. That’s what I was.”
Silence.
“Actually,” Michael began, “You were,” he said, hoping a tiny smile might ease the heft of the message. “But like I’ve heard—until I’m sick to death of hearing it—you were doing the best you could with what you had.”
Sebastian wiped a tear and frowned. “Not sure what that means, but I’m guessing it’s not a compliment.”
Michael snorted. “Uh. No.”
A nod.
“Sorry,” Michael whispered.
Raising a frail hand, Sebastian said, “You don’t have to be nice. We both know what a horrible father…and husband I was,” he sniffed, taking a handkerchief from his pocket. “Still am, tell you the truth.”
“Wouldn’t know,” Michael said quietly. “And for the record, I’ve told people I thought you were dead.” He looked down and stared at his hands a long moment before continuing. “But that’s not…entirely true. It’s just that you became dead to me after what happened. And Scott.” He looked up. “And Mom.”
Fidgeting, Sebastian took a deep breath. “I get it. And truth be told if I were wearing your shoes, I’da done the same thing. Hell, I haven’t seen you in over thirty years, and what kills me—worse that whatever this shit is that’s actually killing me—is how much I’ve missed. That, and the fact I prolly won’t ever see you again. So, given all that, there’s something I’d like to say. Then I suppose you’ll be on your way and back to your fancy restaurant.”
A surprise shot across Michael’s face. “How’d you know about that?”
Michael watched his father bury a dimple into his deeply wrinkled cheek. It reminded him of Natalie, and he caught himself grinning.
“First of all, I may be old and dumb,” Sebastian said. “But I’m not stupid. Or completely out of touch. We get something here called the local newspaper.”
Michael shook his head and honestly grinned for the first time since he arrived. “Right.”
“IF I had only five minutes left—which seems about right—there’s a couple things I’d like to say.” He stopped to look for approval. “If that’s okay.”
“I’ve got five. Shoot.”
Shaking his head, he mumbled, “Still a smart aleck, huh?”
“I guess so. What’s the thing about apples not falling far from the tree?”
Sebastian leaned back in his chair, grinned, and stared at the ceiling. “Where do I start,” he mumbled, cracking his knuckles. “First and foremost, and the only thing you may or may not believe, but I’m telling you anyway, is that I did NOT kill your mother.”
In that instant, any shred of lightheartedness evaporated as Michael’s forehead creased, making his thick eyebrows morph into a frown. That caused Sebastian to hold up his hand. “Prolly best if you just let me get it all out. Won’t take but a sec.”
A nod.
“I didn’t, Son. I promise. Second, your brother’s a shit. A lying and self-centered scared little shit.”
Another nod.
“Next, I don’t have much of anything left to my name, but I’d like to leave them to…my only granddaughter.”
Michael’s next expression was equal parts confusion and impatience, and Sebastian was not sure which half was stronger, but he kept moving. “I know, I’ve never met her, but I certainly know about her. Newspaper’s are good, but that internet thing is even better.”
Michael managed a courteous grin.
“And lastly, I want you to do me one tiny favor. And IF you do, and this is a super big IF—the warden has promised to release me.”
Michael wasn’t sure how to react. “What?”
“You mean, what is the favor, or what did I say?”
As Michael stood, an officer outside the cell shifted his weight. Michael glanced over his shoulder. “All the above. And what’s the favor? It must be something if the warden’s willing to let you out early, and from death row, no less.”
Sebastian pushed himself up from the table and stepped closer to Michael—not enough to invade his space—but enough to look at him eye to eye.
“Now, I’ll admit it sounds a bit crazy, but he said if you’d pull all the stops and prepare one big meal for him and a couple of his closest friends—like you do at your restaurant and on TV—he’d exercise his authority to release me early. And you can imagine what that means even if all I have is a half year to live.”
Michael frowned. “I thought all you had was a couple of weeks.”
“Where’d you get that from?”
Shaking his head, he mumbled, “Same guy who lured me in here to see you.”
Sebastian began coughing. It went on long enough to take his breath away.
“Easy does it,” Michael said, taking him by his good elbow and helping him to sit.
Catching his breath, he nodded. “Thanks, Son. And hell, it could be a couple weeks. Word the Doc gave me was maybe four to six months. I don’t know, it wasn’t about what he said, but the way he said it…that made me wonder.” He looked sideways at his son. “Either way, who knows how much time any of us have, right?”
Sitting beside his father, Michael said, “I don’t know, Sebastian.” He got quiet and looked around the lifeless room, absently fiddling with his visitor’s badge. “That seems kinda weird for one thing, but also—”
“I get it, Michael. I get it. And don’t give it another thought. Listen, you coming here was more than enough. Especially after all this time. No, I can live on this for months or weeks,” he shrugged, “As the case might be. All depends on the path life takes me.”
“Is that really it?” Michael scratched his chin. “I mean…it sounds too easy. A meal for total freedom?”
Sebastian’s head bobbled like a car dash toy. “It is. On both counts.”
“Huh?”
“He tells me he’s a—what do you call it—a foodie?”
Distracted, Michael drifted away while his father rattled on about how much the warden talked about and appeared obsessed with food and how every time the warden visited him he was always eating. Michael thought about how he barely remembered the man sitting in front of him, and what he remembered he did not enjoy. The tiny cell felt all too similar to the small dark closet he spent entirely too much time in as a little boy. His mind flashed to his father coming home—working as a shipyard mechanic and smelling of beer or cheap liquor. He recalled how Sebastian would then spend most of the weekend drinking and taking out his frustrations on his family—whether it was his not making enough money, or not being smart enough to get ahead, or how he was angry at his boys not pulling their weight.
He nearly shuddered at the thought of how when things were not going his father’s way, Pow!
He felt sad then, and he felt sad now. As dark memories faded into the background, he heard the near stranger say something about food being the only thing in prison that represented anything out of the ordinary.
Michael asked, “How’s that?”
“As you can imagine, every day here is exactly like the last. The walls stay the same, the view never changes—except for a rare occasion when I get to go into the yard. And the food? Hell, Michael, it’s barely fit for humans,” he said, dropping his gaze to stare at his hands.
Michael tried to feel something. He wanted to connect—even for a minute. But the father he never really knew had become a stranger he never had the chance to miss. The shadow of the man his father used to be was now sad and old—and dying.
Michael let a long exhale escape as he tried to summon the courage to say one thing that could help bring a ray of hope to an otherwise darkened soul.
“Okay.”
Sebastian looked up with an expression his son had never seen before—one that was as close to elation as he would ever see. Sitting taller, he actually smiled. “Well, that’s…fantastic, Son. Thank you.”
Michael managed a smile.
“And just one more thing.”
Michael shook his head and mumbled, “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
Ignoring him, Sebastian said, “I need you to…” he looked to the guard, then whispered. “Bake a key into the cake.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
He sat back and smiled. “Pretty much.”
21
Hand Snake
Michael sat in Warden Dalton’s office, looking around at a room where nothing was out of place. The books appeared to have been placed on shelves according to height and color. Even the pencils in a shiny cup emblazoned with a medallion appeared to stand at attention. The ambiance was a marked difference from the rest of the bland, worn building. Even amidst all the order, however, something felt off and Michael could not put his finger on it. Then again, the surroundings were much different than anything he had ever experienced or would ever want to experience, especially on this side of the bars.
Michael had mixed feelings; he was unsure whether he had been invited to reconnect with a long-lost father or was being asked to prepare a glorified takeout order.
Dalton sat stiffly upright and adjusted his sleeves, methodically placing his arms on the desk.
“Excuse me for being—how shall I say— skeptical, Dalton,” Michael said with an uncomfortable smile, “But this idea of yours is really kind of—”
“Compulsive?” Dalton asked. “Obsessive?”
“Exactly,” Michael added a grin to his subtle nod.
“Preposterous?” Dalton laughed. “Bordering on insane?”
Michael laughed. “I mean, who oversees someone committed to prison for murder, then barters a deal with a…” he chuckled, “A restauranteur to cook for him in exchange for a man’s freedom?”
Dalton leaned forward on both elbows. “For the record, I’m sorry for the loss of your mother.”
Michael sat expressionless.
“And as I’m sure you’ve observed, your father has paid a terrific price for his unwise choices. All of which resulted in a tremendous tragedy—not that I have to tell you. But I can assure you, and I’ve been doing this for decades now, Sebastian has learned his lesson. He has paid his debt to society. And even though—”
“He murdered my mother,” Michael interrupted with a scowl. “In cold blood. Over an argument about his drinking.”
Dalton felt air get sucked from the room. Michael felt heat rise from his collar. Both men sat transfixed.
“Understood,” Dalton said, raising his hands in surrender. “Those were different days. I don’t know his history as you would. And I’m sorry. That said, I’m simply trying to do something for an old man who has very little time left.”
Michael stopped to consider how he did not know Dalton. Although the man had been a prick back in the force, he seemed to be decent enough, and given he was willing to do something so kind seemed oddly sincere. He had no real beef with him. Having seen the facilities, he had an idea but could not imagine what his father had gone through for the past thirty years. Perhaps Dalton was right. Maybe his father had learned his lesson and his debt to society had been paid. And given all of his good years had been stripped from him, perhaps the system had done its job. Maybe a man should be allowed to spend his remaining days outside these walls.
