Out of Nowhere (13 page)

“Great, great. Good to see you. We’re being a bit careful with tape today because of those packages that got sent back. Well, and because we’re running out, like always.” Rafe smiles and nods. “Okay. Glad you’re here, Colin,” Tony says, and then he’s called away by a skinny girl in jeans and about three layers of flannel even though I’m starting to sweat because the small room is so crowded.

“So,” Rafe says, walking over to a corrugated plastic mail bin full of letters. “People who are incarcerated across Pennsylvania write to us and request books.” He rips open the letter. “They say what kinds of books they’re interested in—sometimes a specific book, sometimes a genre or a subject. Like, here.” He hands me the letter. “This man wants a dictionary and books on World War II.”

The handwriting in the letter is the neatest I’ve ever seen. It looks like an old-fashioned love letter or something, every loop perfectly formed. I guess you have a lot of time to practice penmanship in prison.

Thank you for the books you sent on dogs
, the letter says.
I have read them three times so far. I enjoy the pictures too so if there are histories of this war with pictures then great!
The paper is thinner than the lined paper I used in high school.

“Once we know what he wants,” Rafe continues, “we go look up which prison he’s in and see if there are any restrictions on what we can send.” He follows a line on the sign taped to the wall with his finger. “Okay, no hardcovers.” He grabs a paperback dictionary from a stack of fifty or so against the far wall and then gestures for me to follow him down a steep staircase. “Dictionaries are a really popular request so we get them wholesale. The rest of the books are donated.” He hits a button and the basement illuminates in a crackle of dusty, mismatched bulbs. It’s a lot cooler down here, and it smells like mold.

“All the shelves are labeled by topic. Fiction’s upstairs and nonfiction’s down here.” He points to the right. “World War II” is written in faded blue bubble letters on a sign laminated with tape.

“Rafe, what is this? Why are these people sending books to people in prison?” I’m overwhelmed by strangeness. Like I’ve gone to sleep and woken up somewhere I shouldn’t be.

“Well, people in prison want to read too, Colin.”

“Aren’t there libraries?” I know I’ve seen that in movies.

“There are. But they’re extremely underfunded and very small. And copies of popular books—dictionaries, popular fiction, anything with sex or violence in it—have a way of disappearing. Besides, a lot of incarcerated folks have read everything in their prison’s library, so this gives them a chance to request things they couldn’t get otherwise.”

Rafe’s voice is animated, passionate.

“I get that,” I say. “But, I mean, aren’t they supposed to be being punished?”

Rafe pulls himself up straight and it’s only then that I realize how often he leans in toward me. He seems more remote, and when he speaks, he sounds impatient.

“People make mistakes, Colin. That doesn’t mean they deserve to suffer forever. Besides, self-education will be an advantage to them when they’re released.”

I nod, feeling like I’ve waded into waters that are deeper than I suspected.

“I didn’t mean to piss you off,” I say. “I just didn’t know this was, like, a thing.”

Rafe touches my shoulder lightly, turning me toward the books.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Do you want to pick a book for him? A softcover.”

I don’t really get what we’re doing here, but I flip through a few books on World War II, looking for one that doesn’t seem too dry. Finally, I find a good one and hold it out to Rafe.

“He said he wanted pictures,” I say, and Rafe smiles.

Upstairs, Rafe grabs us the corner of a table and shows me how to respond to the letter and package the books for mailing. The other people at the table all seem to know each other, and Rafe introduces me.

“So,” a girl with artfully styled hair says, “do you live in the neighborhood?” She’s just trying to be polite, I know, and make conversation, but though the people don’t all look the same, they all look different than me and I’m hyperaware that I don’t know what I’m doing.

“No, I live in South Philly,” I say. Then, because these are Rafe’s friends—or acquaintances, at least—I add, “You?”

“Yeah, I live at 48th and Kingsessing.” She points south. “So, like, what’s your story? I haven’t seen you here before.”

I fucking hate that question.
What’s your story
, like the person expects you to entertain them or something. I think of all the conversations I could start, the topics I could bring up, and the jokes I could make to get in with them and find that none of them really seem suited to this crowd. In fact, I have no idea how to make them like me.

“Um, no story, man. I’m an auto mechanic.”

“Oh. Cool. I’ve always wanted to do a skillshare about how to fix cars. Neat.” But she keeps looking at me like she’s waiting for me to explain myself and my presence here and I don’t know what she expects. And what the hell is a skillshare?

“So….” She tries again. “Have you been involved in prison justice and decarceration before, or…?”

“Uh… what’s decarceration?”

She seems puzzled and looks around at the others. “Oh well, it’s trying to get the state not to funnel any more money into building prisons and to eventually release incarcerated folks from prison, you know?”

Everyone else at the table nods as they pack their books.

“Um, is that… I mean… you don’t really want to release people from prison, though, right? Like, what about murderers and rapists?”

Every head at the table snaps up to look at me. A few start to say something but then look at Rafe and look at each other, puzzled.

“How’s it going, Colin,” Tony says, coming to lean over me on the table.

“Um, fine.” I lean away from him.

“Cool, cool.” He hesitates. “Okay, well, just let me know if you get stuck.”

“Am I doing something wrong?” I ask Rafe quietly.

He shakes his head. I meant with the people at our table, but Rafe says, “He’s just making sure, since it’s your first time.”

“Dude, stop saying that. You make me sound like a virgin.”

I’m joking, but Rafe’s expression changes quickly and he swallows hard. Which, of course, makes my stupid dick sit up and take notice again. Rafe clears his throat.

“I’m gonna get another.” I gesture to the letter bin. This letter is from a woman. It’s dumb, I guess, but I never thought about the fact that there are women are in prison too. Her name’s Jane and she wants romance novels set in Scotland. I wander into the room with the fiction, where it quickly becomes clear not only that a
lot
of the romances are set in Scotland but also that you can tell just by the covers, all of which feature plaid, bare-chested men in kilts, or both.

I grab a few of the least tattered ones, but instead of going back to my table I veer right and go in the basement, hoping to delay the moment when I have to make small talk with the other volunteers. Okay, they seem friendly, and obviously they’re doing a nice thing, but… I don’t know, there’s something about them that I’m clearly missing. Like, they all seem to agree with each other without saying anything, but I’m not sure what they agree about. And Rafe clearly agrees with… whatever they’re doing, and I don’t like not getting something about him.

I lean against a shelf marked “Prison Abolition” and look at the books I grabbed. The first one is called
Kiss of the Highlander
, and the cover shows the bottom half of a man’s face and his bare shoulders draped in plaid. I can’t tear my eyes away from the cover because the mouth looks kind of like Rafe’s mouth. I’ve never read a romance novel, never even seen one except when people are reading them on the train. Curious, I flip it open to read just the beginning.

I startle at a hand on my shoulder and practically decapitate myself jerking around to look up at Rafe.

“Jesus,” he says. “I thought you left.”

“Sorry,” I say, pushing myself up and holding the books behind my back. “Just, um, getting some books.”

“What’d you get?”

“Oh, just, you know.”

“Nope, I don’t.” He looks quizzical.

“Um.” I hold out the books.

Rafe laughs. “Very steamy, Colin. So.” He leans in close. “Do highlanders do it for you?”

“Well, I saw the movie. Queen. Best soundtrack ever.”

“Mmhmm. Well, it’s about time to go, if you want to come finish up this last package.”

Thank god.
“Sure.”

Back at our table, a skinny guy wearing a bike helmet is talking loudly about how everyone should come to a film screening later that night. Everyone nods like they already know about it, but he never says what the movie is. I keep my head down and write back to Jane.

Hi Jane
, I write.
I have to admit I’ve never read a romance novel so I hope these are the kind of thing you were thinking of. I read the very beginning of the time travel one just now and it seems pretty cool and mysterious. Then the other one says on the back that it’s supposed to be funny so I hope it is. Nothing worse than when someone says something’s funny but it’s not. Have a good one. Colin.

I nudge Rafe. “I don’t know what to say. Is this okay, or…?”

Rafe reads it over my shoulder and he bites his lip.

“I can—”

Rafe bumps my shoulder. “It’s perfect.”

I WAKE
up on Sunday in a shitty mood. I don’t realize how shitty until I go to make coffee and Shelby darts in front of me and I have to basically throw myself against the wall to avoid stepping on her.

“Fuck!” I punch the wall in a flash of hot anger, which, it turns out, just hurts a lot. It’s not a good start to the day, and every little thing irritates me more than the last. I have a voice mail message from Sam from last night, asking where I am and accusing me of “never being around anymore.” Yeah, like he’s ever around since he married Liza. We used to hang out all the time, but once they moved in together, he always wanted us to come to their house. And it wasn’t the same. I’m out of fucking milk, so I shove handfuls of cereal into my mouth from the box while slumped on the couch.

I have nothing to do today but stare at the wall. I bet Rafe has things to do. Letters to write to prisoners and kids to inspire and fundraisers to plan, or whatever they were going to do when they left to get dinner together last night. Rafe invited me but I didn’t relish the idea of humiliating myself further by having approximately zero to contribute to their conversation about systemic racism and cultural biases and all the other stuff they were discussing in the parking lot before I left. Rafe had started to explain, but I waved him off.

I scrub my hands over my face and consider just going back to bed and sleeping until work tomorrow morning, but I’m all fidgety and I know I won’t be able to sleep.

I hate Sundays. It’s not just that I have nothing to do. It’s that it doesn’t matter what I do. If I watch a game on TV or go running or do laundry or clean the house for the third time this week, it just doesn’t fucking matter. I’ve decided on cleaning the house again when my phone rings.

“Hi, Colin.” Even through the phone, the way he says my name does something to me.

“Hey.”

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to go running yesterday. If you’re free today, we could go.”

Part of me doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I’m basically free all the time.

“Um, yeah, I could do that.”

“Great. I’m already in the car, so why don’t I come to you?”

“Okay.”

I try to shake off my crappy mood before Rafe arrives, though thirty-six years of history should have told me that was impossible.

Rafe shows up cheery and energized, and I try to say as little as possible so I don’t ruin it. I’m in no mood to push myself today. I feel sluggish even though I got enough sleep, so Rafe and I are well-matched for pace. Def Leppard pumps me up for a little while, but the second we’re back at my house, I’m pissy again. I let Rafe shower first. My own shower reminds me of the other day when I jerked off thinking about him, and I’m swallowed up by a dark, tarry cloud.

What the fuck am I doing with him? What does this mean? And what happens next? Rafe’s made it clear that he expects something from me, and I… don’t like it.

I rub the towel over my damp hair. I still haven’t shaved it.

Rafe’s in the living room playing with Shelby. “So, what’s up with you?”

“What? Nothing. Why?” Mistake. Never ask why. Just deny.

“You’ve just seemed pretty quiet. And you look sad.”

“I’m not allowed to be quiet sometimes?”

Rafe raises his hands in the universally irritating I-am-blameless gesture. “Okay, Colin. Okay.”

Yeah. Damn
right
it’s okay
for me to have nothing to say.

I walk into the kitchen and start making a peanut butter sandwich to have something to do with my hands. I hold the jar up to Rafe in question when he follows me.

“Sure.”

“I don’t have any jam.”

“Got any honey?”

“Dude, gross.”

“No, it’s good,” he insists.

I shake my head but gesture toward the cabinet.

When he takes a bite, honey oozes out of the side of the sandwich. “Want to try?”

I shake my head. Then I get curious and pull his plate toward me. I take a bite and the mark my teeth leave in the soft bread overlaps with Rafe’s. I chew suspiciously. It’s disgusting.

“Ugh, too sweet.”

Rafe chuckles and reclaims his plate. “I like sweet.” He winks at me and I feel my chest flushing for no reason.

“My brother used to eat peanut butter and cheese sandwiches,” I say.

“Which brother?”

“Sam.”

“That’s the oldest.”

I nod.

“That doesn’t sound good. What about Brian?”

“Peanut butter and grape jelly.”

“Grape jelly. That’s pretty bad too.” I nod. “And Daniel?”

“When he was younger, he liked this marshmallow fluff that one of the guys who worked with my dad used to bring over. Now, I think he likes peanut butter and cinnamon.” Well, I don’t have any idea about now, I guess. I haven’t shared any meal but Thanksgiving with Daniel in years.