THE BUS TRIP TOOK SIXTEEN HOURS AND passed through Abilene, Midland and Odessa on the way west. Flip spent most of that time dozing. There was little to see driving through the heart of Texas and the bus did not stop for sights, anyway. He had learned through long practice the art of sleeping when he wasn’t tired, as a weapon against boredom. When Coffield was locked down and there was nothing to do, nothing to read, there was always sleep.
It was ten in the morning when the Greyhound bus reached the El Paso terminal. Flip unloaded with the other passengers and fetched his bag from underneath the belly of the bus. He went inside and bought a candy bar from a snack machine. It was the first thing he’d eaten since leaving Coffield.
He made a call from the pay phones but his mother wasn’t at home. She knew to expect him, but not when, and he regretted not calling ahead once he learned the schedule. There was enough money left in his envelope to get him home, but he imagined himself sitting on the front step waiting. In the end he supposed it didn’t matter; he could not hang out all day at the bus station.
A taxi carried him the rest of the way. Flip didn’t have money enough to tip the driver and he knew the guy was mad, but all he could say was, “I’m sorry,” and he got out of the car.
His mother’s house was on a quiet street with other houses that looked exactly the same. Hers was a coral pink with white bars on all the windows and doors. The driveway was empty, a naked basketball hoop without a net hanging over the car park. Flip looked both ways up and down the street and there was no one around. At least no one would stare.
He put his bag on the front step by the door and circled around to the back yard. His dog, Nacho, was dead now four years but the yard still showed signs of the holes he’d dug. Flip peered through the windows into the house, knowing he wouldn’t see anyone but doing it anyway. He saw empty rooms that looked the same as they had when he left: the same furniture, the same pictures on the walls, the same everything.
Flip returned to the front in time to see his mother’s old Impala turning into the drive. She waved excitedly from behind the wheel and he raised a hand. He wanted to smile, but time inside had quashed that instinct.
“Felipe!” his mother exclaimed as she got out of the car. “Oh, Felipe, have you been here very long?”
“Not long, Mamá.”
Flip’s mother was short and very round and she had to raise her arms above her head to embrace him around the shoulders. She squeezed hard. “I’m so sorry you had to wait. You should have called!”
“I did call.”
“Not the house, my cell phone! I would have hurried at the store! Help me with the bags.”
They unloaded the trunk of the car and Flip’s mother let them in. The house’s smell returned to him immediately: the odor of cooking and scrupulous cleaning. The floors were hardwood and they shone. There was not a bit of dust in Silvia Morales’ home.
Flip put the grocery bags on the kitchen table. At first he thought he should sit down while his mother put away her purchases, but then he felt strangely uncomfortable and chose to stand. If he had been back at Coffield, he would have retreated to his cell when this feeling came over him, or to some isolated table in the day room.
“I have everything you like,” his mother told him. “We’re going to have a big meal and your aunts and uncles are coming. We’ll do it on Saturday. Tonight it’s just you and me. Is that all right, Felipe?”
“It’s fine, Mamá.”
“Where are your things?”
“I left them outside.”
“Bring them in! Your room is ready for you.”
Flip gathered his bag from the front step and brought it to his room. It was the second largest of three bedrooms, the smallest a sewing room for his mother. He was glad to see that she had painted the walls and left them bare. The front rooms were an assault of family pictures and artwork. He was not ready for all of that in his space.
His bed awaited, neatly made with a quilt on top. Sunlight from the side of the house slanted through the window, cut into slices by the burglar bars.
He had a desk that was clear of objects except for a pad and pen. Maybe his mother expected him to write letters to his people back at Coffield, or maybe it was just an innocent thing. His red chest of drawers was the same.
His things were mostly books and he arranged them on top of the chest of drawers. He had notebooks filled with scribbles and thoughts. These he put away in the desk where no one would see. When he was done he sat on the edge of the bed and let the hush sink in. It was never quiet in prison.
“Felipe!” his mother called and broke the silence. “Do you want something to eat now?”
“Okay, Mamá,” Flip yelled back.
“I will make you something. Did you have breakfast?”
“No, Mamá.”
“Then you’ll have breakfast now.”
Before long there was the scent of browning chorizo, distinct even from here. Flip slipped off his shoes and lay down on the bed, watching the ceiling. Despite himself, his stomach rumbled.
He wished he could say that being here did not seem real, but it was real enough. The feel of the mattress underneath his body, the smells, the walls… all of these told him he was here now and not dreaming it. Soon he would sit down to eggs and sausage and a cup of dark coffee. His mother would ask him many questions and he would do his best to answer them without frightening her. Maybe to her the years in Coffield would be like something seen through a haze, but it was fresh in his mind and he did not foresee a time when it would not be.
Flip closed his eyes, listened until he could hear the clink of cooking utensils and his mother muttering to herself as she cooked. He felt the warmth of the sun falling on his leg. As he did on the bus, he zoned into another place, letting time compress and speed past him. It wasn’t until his mother called to him again that he came back to this room, this bed, this body.
“Coffee is ready!”
“I’m coming, Mamá.”