More Than We Can Tell

It’s harder to get into prison than I thought.

Maybe that’s a good joke. Maybe I should say it to Declan.

Maybe not. He’s sitting beside me in the waiting room, his knee bouncing. The room is more cordial than I expected, with green-striped carpeting and yellow walls. The only thing that signifies we’re in a prison is the thick glass wall between us and the guards. And the heavy metal doors. The signs warning against smuggling contraband, stating that visitors may be required to submit to a strip-search before admittance.

Okay, it’s obvious we’re in a prison.

We’ve been sitting for half an hour, and that’s after the hour-long drive to get here. We each had to fill out an application and consent to be fingerprinted. The guard behind the glass still has our driver’s licenses, and we won’t get them back until we leave. Right now, we’re waiting for our background check to go through. Then we have to go through a pat down, and then we’ll be allowed back to visit his father.

If his father consents to a visitation.

I don’t think Declan was prepared for this torture. I think he assumed it would be like a TV show: we could show up, ask to meet him, and we’d sit on the other side of a pane of glass while his father walks out and has a moment of surprise as he tries to figure out who we are.

No, his father is going to be told that we’re here. And he’s going to have to agree to meet with us.

So now we sit. We wait.

Other people wait, too, but no one as long as us. I guess they all have background checks on file already. The waiting room isn’t crowded, though. Tuesday afternoons must not be a hotbed of activity at the Maryland State Penitentiary.

With a loud buzz, the metal door unlocks. Declan jerks like he’s been prodded with a red-hot poker. He’s done this every time the door opens.

This time, a guard does call us. The man’s voice is bored as he announces, “Declan Murphy and Rev Fletcher.”

Declan shoots to his feet. I’m right behind him.

“Are you sure you want me to come with you?” I say, my voice low.

“Yeah.” His voice is tight. No emotion. He’s afraid.

Declan is never afraid.

We have to go through three locked doors and down a small hallway, until we’re admitted to a small white room with no furniture. Declan’s face has paled two shades, making the freckles splashed across his nose stand out.

“Is this where we’re meeting him?” His voice is rough and quiet, yet steady.

“No,” says the guard. His name tag reads MARSHALL, and his voice is still bored. “Spread your arms. Are you carrying any weapons?”

Declan shakes his head.

The guard glances at him. “I need a verbal answer.”

“No.”

The guard begins a pat down. Despite the boredom in his voice, he seems to be thorough, going all the way to Declan’s ankles, and even running a hand through his hair. “Any drugs or paraphernalia?”

Declan shakes his head again, then clears his throat. “No.”

“You’re clear.” He turns to me, and his expression is dispassionate. “That sweatshirt is too baggy. They should have told you to leave it at the front.”

I freeze. Of course this is the one day I’m wearing short sleeves under the hoodie.

I’ve been standing here psyching myself up for the pat down, which will be bad enough. This is a new level. One I’m not prepared for.

The guard gestures with his hand. He thinks I’m hesitating because I don’t know what to do. “I can leave it at the desk for you.”

Declan looks at me. “It’s okay,” he says. “I can go alone.”

But I’m already pulling it over my head, and I spread my arms. The air feels cool and foreign on my bare skin. I can’t remember the last time I wore short sleeves without anything over them.

Declan knows every mark on me, and we have no secrets, but I brace myself for a comment from the guard.

He gives none. He doesn’t even stare. He pats me down, which is surprisingly clinical despite what it looked like, and asks me the same questions he asked Declan.

Then he says, “You’re clear,” and just like that, he walks to the door on the opposite side of the room.

Declan looks at me. “Thanks,” he whispers.

I shrug, like it’s not a big deal.

Inside, I’m flailing.

But—maybe not flailing as wildly as I would have thought. The guard’s disinterested manner helped. Maybe he’s seen so many people come through here that nothing would surprise him.

The door opens with a loud buzz, and we’re led into a room that looks a lot like a cafeteria. Fluorescent lights blaze overhead, but small windows sit at measured intervals along the ceiling. A dozen round tables are arranged throughout the room. Most of them are occupied. It’s easy to spot the inmates—they wear faded orange jumpsuits. A low hum of conversation fills the room. A very pregnant woman is crying at one table. Five guards line the wall.

I expected glass partitions and telephones.

I think Declan did, too, because his breathing quickens.

Then I realize he’s staring at a table two-thirds of the way across the room. A lone man has spotted us, and he stands up. He looks familiar, but there’s no way it can be Declan’s father, because this man appears smaller than I remember. Jim Murphy always seemed to tower, his personality bigger than life.

This man is tall, but no taller than we are. His hair is reddish brown and threaded with gray, and he wears a full beard. But his steely gray eyes are the same as the ones looking out of Declan’s face. His shocked expression is virtually identical to the one Declan wears.

Of course he doesn’t seem as tall. We haven’t seen him since we were thirteen.

We’re all frozen. No one moves.

Guard Marshall speaks behind us. “Your inmate can’t leave the table. Any contact is limited to three seconds. Keep your hands above the table. You can take a seat when you’re ready.”

Your inmate. It sounds so intimate—and so alienating.

But the words spur Declan into motion. He strides forward, and I follow. We weave through the other visitors, then stop across the table from his father.

I hang back, just a bit, because I don’t know what Declan wants to do. Is he going to hug him? Shake his hand? Yell at him?

Declan might not know, either. He said as much in the car.

For now they just stand there staring at each other.

“Murphy!” a guard barks from the wall.

Both Declan and his father jump and turn. Which would be almost comical at any other time.

“You and your party need to be seated,” the guard says.

We all drop onto seats. The table is cold and steel and built into the floor.

Declan’s father can’t seem to stop staring. He and Declan have that in common, too. I can’t stop staring either, if I’m being strictly honest.

This whole moment is so … surreal. I thought I’d feel some familiarity, but this man is a stranger. He’s thinner than I remember, his expression more guarded. Declan and I have been best friends since we were seven, and my memories of his father are clear. Camping in the backyard, telling ghost stories with flashlights, and making s’mores around the fire pit. Eating dry Froot Loops on the couch and playing Xbox past midnight, until his mom would come down and shake her head at all of us. Backyard cookouts with our families, our dads shooting the breeze as they stood around the grill with a few beers.

I remember when Declan’s father had more than a few.

Declan’s memories must be twice as clear, twisted with many that aren’t so happy. He partly blames himself for his sister’s death. He always has. I wish I knew what he was after—an ending or a beginning.

“Hi,” he finally says. His voice is gravelly and quiet, as if he’s not sure he’s ready to speak. “Dad.”

His father puts a fist to his mouth, then lowers his hands to rub his palms against the orange pants, before bringing them back on top of the table. Until now, I hadn’t noticed that his hands are shaking. “Hi. Declan.” His voice carries the faintest tremor. “I wasn’t ready for—” He has to clear his throat. “You sound like a man.”

Declan seems surprised by that. “I’m eighteen.”

“I know. I know you are.” His gaze shifts to me. “And … Rev?”

I nod.

Mr. Murphy’s breath shakes. “I’m so … I’m so glad you boys are still friends.”

“Of course,” says Declan, his voice uncertain.

They fall into silence, just staring at each other. The air is full of nervous energy, on both sides. I want to leave the table, to give them some space, but I don’t want to leave Dec here when it all still feels so unpredictable.

His father takes a long, shaking breath. “When they—when they told me you were here—” His face almost crumples, and he presses a hand to his eyes. “I thought it was a joke.”

Declan’s eyes are wet, too, but he snorts. “That would be a shitty joke.”

His father laughs through his tears. “You’re right. It would be.” He reaches out a hand and places it over his son’s. “I’m so glad you’re here. I have missed you—” His voice breaks. “I have missed you so much.”

Declan’s breath catches, but he turns his hand to clasp his father’s. “I missed you, too.”

“Murphy!” the guard barks. “Three seconds.”

They let go. Draw back. A reminder that this is not a normal father-son reunion.

But the interruption seems to help them move past the tears.

“Does your mom know you’re here?”

Declan shakes his head. “I thought—” He hesitates as if unprepared for this question. “I thought it might upset her.”

His father nods, and a wave of emotion washes over his face. “She’s doing okay, though?”

“She—” Declan takes a breath, and his hesitation is full of things he’s not sure he wants to talk about. Her marriage to Alan. Her pregnancy. I know this because he talked about all of it in the car. “Yeah. She’s okay.”

His shoulders are tense. He’s worried his father is going to press for more information, and this visit is going to go south.

But his father doesn’t. He reaches out a hand to touch Declan again, almost as if he can’t help it. “I need—I need to tell you how sorry I am. How sorry I am for what I put you through. How sorry I am for poor Kerry.” A tear snakes down his face.

Declan nods. “I’m sorry, too.” He pulls his hand back, then glances at the guards. “I don’t want them to yell at me again.”

His father smiles through the tears, then swipes at his face again. “They’re yelling at me.”

“Oh.” Declan looks abashed.

“Tell me about you. Tell me what I’ve missed.”

Declan takes another breath and lets it out. “I don’t know how to put five years into thirty minutes.”

His father’s eyes mist over again, and he quite visibly shakes it off. “Try. Please.”

Declan’s face changes as he sifts through memories. I wonder what he’s looking for. His mom isn’t a safe target. He may not feel comfortable talking about Juliet, given the way they met, and how so much of their relationship is woven through grief and healing.

It’s strange, to sit here with them and know I was a part of Declan’s life for so long, and his father knows none of it.

With a start, I realize the opposite is also true.

Declan finally says, “I still have the Charger.”

“You do!” His father lights up.

Declan nods. Some of the tension drains from his posture. He can talk about cars with anyone, anywhere, until the end of time. So can his dad.

Declan says, “I finished rebuilding it after—” His voice stops. “After. I’d show you a picture but they wouldn’t let us bring our phones in.”

“That’s okay. That’s okay. I’d kill to get my hands on an engine again.”

His words hang in the air for a moment. It’s like they both realize what he’s said.

Declan lets it go. “I’ve been doing some work with this auto club. All custom stuff. It’s been fun. I’m putting away some money for school.”

“School! That’s right, you’re graduating this year. Where are you going?”

“Hey,” I say, and it’s almost as if they’ve forgotten I’m there. Which is fine. Which is good, actually. “I’m going to go wait by the door so you can have some privacy.” I glance at Dec. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Thanks, Rev.”

I’m worried the guards are going to give me a hard time for not sitting “with my party,” but I walk over to the door, and the guard standing closest asks me if I’m ready for an escort out. I say that I’d rather wait, if that’s okay, and he gestures to an empty table.

“Rules still apply,” he says.

I can’t exactly touch anyone from here, but I guess he means I need to keep my hands visible. I can do that.

It feels odd, though, to be sitting at a table, my bare forearms right there. I take off clothes to shower and change, obviously, but I don’t really look at myself. The scars are many and varied. The arcs from the stove. The thick white lines from the knife wounds that probably needed stitches, but never got them. Small pink patches where I was burned with a match or a lighter. The embedded ink where my father wanted to make sure a message really stuck with me.

Like seeing Jim Murphy, these marks are familiar, but they feel foreign, too. I stare at them so long, I begin to think I’m staring at someone else.

“Rev. We’re done.”

I look up at Declan—and he looks … raw. My eyes flick to the table where they were sitting, but his father is gone.

“You okay?” I say.

“Yeah.” And then he just turns for the door.

He doesn’t say much as we sign out, get our things, and leave the facility. The sun has begun to set, bringing a bite to the breeze. When the air hits my arms, I don’t want to put the sweatshirt on. I want to stretch my arms out and feel it.

I feel like a fool, walking along beside my friend, who is so obviously Going Through Something. When we’re in the parking lot, he pulls the keys out of his pocket and holds them out.

“Can you drive?”

I don’t question this; just close my fingers around the steel. “Sure.”

It’s not until we’re climbing into the car that he finally seems to look at me. “You didn’t put your sweatshirt back on.”

“I know.” I start the ignition and put the car in gear. “Are you hungry? I told Mom we might not be back for dinner.” She knows where we are. I can’t lie to them anymore, and I know she won’t tell Declan’s mom.

“No.” He stares out at the sinking sun. But then he glances over. “If you want to stop, go ahead.”

“I’m fine.”

When we’re on the highway, the road humming below us, he finally speaks. “I don’t know what I expected. I think I turned him into this monster in my head. If that makes any sense.” He glances at me and doesn’t wait for a response. “Of course it makes sense. But I was so worried he wouldn’t want to see me, that he’s blamed me all this time. But he doesn’t. He blames himself. And he’s so sad. I didn’t expect him to be so sad.”

Declan rubs his hands across his face. “He’s just a man who screwed up, Rev. He’s just—he’s just a man. I don’t think I ever realized that. Isn’t that stupid?”

“No,” I say.

He doesn’t say anything else. The car gradually darkens as the sun sets, and we’re trapped in the safety of this little cocoon. He’s so intensely quiet for so long that I glance over.

He’s sound asleep.

Wow. At least he asked me to drive.

I glance at the clock on the dash. We’re almost home, but it’s only half past six. I don’t have to meet Emma for another ninety minutes.

So I skip our exit. I drive. And Declan sleeps.