My last cellmate had only a fifth-grade education.
His name was Larry
and he had undiagnosed dyslexia and developmental delays.
He reminded me of my big sister DeeDee, who died
long before I understood the futility
of blaming the sick for being ill.
Larry liked to play a game I couldn’t stand,
but I felt sorry for him, so I would play along.
“Celly,” he’d call, “they take 55% for restitution, right?”
“Yeah,” I’d reply.
“And my papers say I owe $9,000 right?”
“Yeah.”
“So if my family sends me $1,500, how much that leaves me?”
Closing my eyes, I do the math.
“$675”
“That should take care of me for awhile, right Celly?”
“Yeah, Larry, that will last you awhile.”
After that, Larry would get quiet, settle back on his bunk
and stare at our empty lockers with a simple little smile.
I knew he was imagining what they would look like full.
Sometimes he’d fill out commissary lists for the prison store,
the care package ordering forms,
revising them daily, weighing his choices at just below a whisper.
The amounts Larry wanted and calculated varied a lot
but were always outrageous: two, six, ten thousand dollars.
I pretended I didn’t notice that his family never wrote,
and that he never received any packages or money.
from The Way Back