KALYN

DAD ALWAYS CALLS right on time. Never early, never late.

Still, by 7:40 p.m. I’m sitting next to snoring Grandma on the floral-patterned sofa and watching the beige phone, waiting for it to tremble and screech on its doily. Grandma’s the only person I know who’s got a landline with a spiral cord attached, and I swear it makes the calls with Dad more meaningful. I’m stuck listening in one spot, just like Dad’s listening in one spot. There’s something almost holy about it.

I’m undecided about talking about Rose, even once the beige phone rattles, even once I’ve got it suctioned to my ear and cheek.

First, static sounds. Then a familiar female robotic voice: “This call will be recorded and monitored.” The voice switches to a crackling recording of an older man—“AN INMATE AT WILDER PENITENTIARY”—and then we’re back to the robot—“GARY SPENCE is attempting to contact you. Will you accept all charges? If so, press 3. If you will not accept charges and would like to speak to a representative—”

“Hush, Judy,” I tell her, jabbing the #3 button before she can finish her spiel.

There’s a bleep! as some distant connection is made, and then the muffled echo of Arkansasian indoor air, and then a throat clearing.

“Hey, Dad!”

“Hey, you.” Dad’s voice is softer than you’d expect for a man so big, but it’s got a little gravel in it. “Am I speaking to the birthday girl?”

“The one and only.” He doesn’t know there were two of me today.

“Well, ain’t that a lucky thing. Judy didn’t give you a hard time, now, did she?”

“Nah. Just her usual interrogation.”

“Don’t let your guard down, now. She’s one studious droid. She’s learning.”

We’ve invented a backstory for Judy, the automated prison-call system. In our lore, Judy’s voice once belonged to the warden’s dead wife. He’s trying to re-create her by way of artificial intelligence. The warden doesn’t realize that Judy 2.0’s forming ideas of her own, developing a consciousness, getting ready to rebel.

For all I know, the real warden’s never been married. Dad’s sci-fi kick’s lasted a while. It’s better than his true-crime kick, when he was obsessing over serial killer books as if to teach himself he could never be one. “Bad as I am, I’m no Bundy.”

Now he’s all about alien parasites, clones, and intergalactic warfare. I watch new sci-fi movies and retell the plots to him. If Judy 2.0’s coming to life, it’s only because we’ve been researching so much.

“Speaking of clever half-dead women—is that your grandma I hear snoring?”

“Sure is. Want me to wake her up?”

“Nah.” Truth is, Dad doesn’t really know how to talk to Grandma these days. He’s not here to read her body language and figure out her meaning. I think he’s worried about upsetting her, triggering another disaster or some shit.

He let slip once that he thought her stroke had something to do with him failing to get paroled. Technically, his sentence is “fifteen to life,” and last year he was eligible, but he got denied quick-sharp.

“My behavior’s not always been so good.” Dad didn’t go into it, but I know he was referring to earlier Wilder Pen days, when he joined a prison gang and took part in some altercation, and someone ended up stabbed and Dad got himself concussed. Mom said it was Dad refusing to take shit, that marrow-powder acting up, and it was good for him to stand his ground.

When he got denied parole, though, Mom didn’t say anything.

I ask Dad how things are on his end. Every five minutes of phone time costs Mom a dollar and we try to keep that in mind, but we haven’t talked in weeks.

Dad doesn’t talk about the real bad stuff, but he knows better than to censor the funny parts. I always think if things were different he’d be writing books, not just borrowing them from the prison library. We’re both almost in hysterics, me laughing so hard I’m bound to wake Grandma, when he tells me about his new bunkmate Paul’s misguided attempt to become the cell-block’s resident tattoo artist.

“The guy can’t even draw a straight line, he shakes so much, though to his credit he sure knows his way around a needle. I mean, that’s why he shakes so goddamn much. But anyway. Paul, he tries giving this burly skinhead, Nate, a swastika, and somehow it ends up looking like a freakin’ asterisk. Nate was none too pleased, but it didn’t really go south until Paul let slip he didn’t actually know what a swastika looks like, bless him, and asked Nate if Nate wasn’t the one confused.” I can almost hear Dad wiping tears from his eyes. “Laughed myself stupid. Paul didn’t. Not with his face buried in the toilet!”

“Bet Paul’s looking at new career options now, huh?”

“You’d think. But hand to god, Kay, next day he was offerin’ a discount on asterisk tats. Says they’re the hot shit now, else why would Nate have one?”

It’s terrible and we know it, but we’ve gotta laugh. Things get darker if you don’t.

“Sixteen, huh? We’ll have to put you out to pasture soon. What’d you do to celebrate? Too old for a hot tub weekend at the Super 8, right?”

The car cupcake isn’t worth sharing. “Well, I started at Jefferson High.”

He pauses. “Crazy to think you’re going there. The people in Samsboro—when push comes to shove, they’ll show their teeth. Small towns are all apple pies and roses until you get dirt on their linens. Keep yourself to yourself until you can suss the place out, honey.”

The irony of Dad giving me all this sage, generic life advice is not lost on me. But he’s pretty good at advice, and that’s all he has to give. Being in prison grants him a unique view of people, inside and outside.

“I only threw one egg today,” I tell him.

He snorts. “You’re my kid, all right.”

I almost wanna backtrack, to take this tiny opportunity to tell him about Rose. When I was little, Dad always asked about the plays I was in, said he was sorriest about missing those. “A little Shirley Temple, your mom says. You’ll end up famous!”

I’ve never had the heart to tell him, but these days you’d sooner see me working at the Sunny Spot than putting up with criticism from strangers for no good reason. Had enough of that for a lifetime.

There’s no point puncturing his balloon. One of the few upsides of having my dad in prison for murder is I’d have to work hard to disappoint him. Another upside is it’s easy to tell him what he wants to hear. Small, purple-glittery lies.

Instead of explaining Rose’s unholy creation, I say, “I met some interesting kids.”

“Good interesting or bad interesting?”

I think about Quillpower and Boots. “Not sure. But not boring.”

“Didn’t scare ’em off already, did you?”

“I mean, not yet. I don’t think. I played nice.”

“That’s not playing, Kay. You are nice. Maybe it won’t hurt to let people know it eventually. Show ’em it’s not always about packaging.”

“Dunno, Dad.” I play with the phone cord. The TV’s on mute, but the white buzz of the screen lights up the room. “Mom will tell me to stick to my guns, you know?”

He sighs, heavy and long. “What your mother tells you and what she actually wants don’t always line up. She still smoking a pack a day?”

“In your dreams. She’s smoking two.”

“See? Tell her to cut that out. I’m in prison and I quit; what’s her excuse?”

Nope. Never telling him about my bad habits.

“. . . Kay?”

There’s something big and strange about his hesitation. “What?”

“Tell her I’ll be calling again real soon.”

“Really? It ain’t my birthday again until next year.”

His tone changes. “Well, there’s some news to share, seems like. Unexpected.”

“You up for parole again?”

“Nah. That’s not it.”

“You really gonna leave me wondering, Dad?”

“A little wonder never hurt anyone.”

There’s another bleep! We’ve been talking for close to an hour. That’s gonna come out of my imaginary allowance.

“Kay, it’s lights out.”

“Dad—” There’s still so much to say, and I wish I’d told him more about the boys I threw an egg at and the person I’m pretending to be.

“You know the drill. Later, alligator.”

I bite my tongue. “In a while, crocodile.”

I hang up and cuss under my breath.

Grandma inhales a whistle of air and jerks upright. I adjust her pillows. I can see the white light of the televangelical program reflected in her glasses.

“Claire caught fire,” she says again, pulling my head onto her shoulder.

“Yeah, well. We all crash and burn around here.”