never made the drive and a few others whom I haven't heard from in two years. Most of my former lawyer friends are too busy. My running buddy in law school writes once every other month but can't quite squeeze in a visit. He lives in Washington, a hundred fifty miles to the east, where he claims to work seven days a week in a big law firm. My best pal from the Marine Corps lives in Pittsburgh, two hours away, and he's been to Frostburg exactly once.
I suppose I should be thankful that my father makes the effort.
As always, he's sitting alone in the small visiting room with a brown paper sack on the table in front of him. It's either cookies or brownies from my Aunt Racine, his sister. We shake hands but do not embrace - Henry Bannister has never hugged another man in his life. He looks me over to make sure I have not gained weight and, as always, quizzes me about my daily routine. He has not gained a pound in forty years and can still fit into his Marine uniform. He's convinced that eating less means living longer, and Henry's afraid of dying young. His father and grandfather dropped dead in their late fifties. He walks five miles a day and thinks I should do the same. I have accepted the fact that he will never stop telling me how to live my life, incarcerated or not.
He taps the brown bag and says, "Racine sent these."
"Please tell her I said thanks," I say. If he's so worried about my waistline, why does he bring me a bag of fatty desserts every time he visits? I'll eat two or three and give the rest away.
"You talked to Marcus lately?" he asks.
"No, not in the past month. Why?"
"Big trouble. Delmon's got a girl pregnant. He's fifteen, she's fourteen." He shakes his head and frowns. Delmon was an outlaw by the age of ten, and the family has always expected him to pursue a life of crime.
"Your first great-grandchild," I say, trying to be funny.
"Ain't I proud? A fourteen-year-old white girl knocked up by a fifteen-year-old idiot who happens to be named Bannister."
We both dwell on this for some time. Our visits are often defined not by what is said but by what is kept deep inside. My father is now sixty-nine, and instead of savoring his golden years, he spends most of his time licking his wounds and feeling sorry for himself. Not that I blame him. His dear wife of forty-two years was taken away in a split second. While he was lost in his grief, we found out the FBI had an interest in me, and its investigation soon snowballed. My trial lasted for three weeks and my father was in the courtroom every day. Watching me stand before a judge and get sentenced to ten years in prison was heartbreaking. Then Bo was taken away, from both of us. Now Marcus's children are old enough to inflict serious pain on their parents and extended family.
Our family is due some good luck, but that doesn't appear likely.
"I talked to Ruby last night," he says. "She's doing well, says hello, says your last letter was quite funny."
"Please tell her the letters mean so much. She has not missed a week in five years." Ruby is such a bright spot in our crumbling family. She's a marriage counselor, and her husband is a pediatrician. They have three perfect kids who are kept away from their infamous Uncle Mal.
After a long pause, I say, "Thanks for the check, as always."
He shrugs and says, "Happy to help."
He sends $100 every month, and it is much appreciated. It goes into my account and allows me to buy such necessities as pens, writing tablets, paperbacks, and decent food. Most of those in my White Gang get checks from home and virtually no one in my Black Gang gets a penny. In prison, you always know who's getting money.
"You're almost halfway through," he says.
"I'm two weeks shy of five years," I say.
"I guess it flies by."
"Maybe on the outside. I can assure you the clocks run much slower on this side of the wall."
"Still, it's hard to believe you've been in for five years."
It is indeed. How do you survive for years in prison? You don't think about years, or months, or weeks. You think about today - how to get through it, how to survive it. When you wake