Heading For A New Life Read online

  Jennifer returned a month later. Happy, smiling and again gentle and affectionate. And for two weeks everything was fine again. At work began to improve, there was more free time that they spent together. Going to the cinema and theater, restaurants and dinners with friends, discussing how the day went - it seemed that the dream of an ideal family had finally begun to come true. Until, returning home somehow, Chris found Jennifer in tears. Not remembering himself from anxiety, he tried to find out what had happened, but in response he received only choked sobs. And only half an hour later, Jennifer said that her best friend, Courtney, had passed away her father, whom she knew very well. Chris booked the ticket himself, asking if he should go with her.

  — Not worth it, honey, - Jennifer sighed through her tears. “You’ve got a lot of work, and a funeral is not the best place for fun.

  After returning, Jennifer seemed to be replaced. She was cheerful beyond measure, then she was silent, not responding to questions. Now she drank a glass of wine with difficulty, then she jammed the whiskey without ceasing. Chris started to get her drunk on his way home. He tried to speak, tried to exhort, tried to scream. Several times he was called at work with requests to pick up his spouse from the restaurant - usually this happened before lunch. And then he found cocaine. A small, tightly sealed bag showed up in a shoebox when he once again brought his wife home, took off his shoes and decided to put them back in place. That evening he himself got drunk and sat for a long time, staring at one point, thinking about what to do next.

  Send your wife to the clinic? But, firstly, will she agree, and secondly ... Is there really a need for this? She has no addiction, just boredom. Maybe, if you offer to open something of her own, Jennifer will get carried away so much that the need for doping will disappear by itself? He spoke to her the next morning. She sobbed and swore that there would be no more. Together they flushed the powder down the toilet, and in the evening Chris found her deranged on the kitchen floor. Life gradually began to turn into hell. One of the last drops was the arrival of Courtney, who flew to Seattle "to support her friend in a difficult life situation."

  For five days in a row, he practically did not see his wife and himself tried not to appear at home,

  spending time in the office. Chris didn't show up until Courtney left. Hardly recognizing his home, he lost count empty bottles, with despair noticing traces of powder on the glass table. Chris went around room after room, finding everywhere evidence of the violent parties that his wife was throwing in his absence. The silence in the house was deafening, and Jennifer's panting, spread out on the living room sofa, seemed deafeningly loud. Chris turned around, was about to leave, go up to the bedroom, just not to see all this when the phone rang on the table. Not Jennifer - probably Courtney forgot. He took it to turn it off, noticing on the splash screen a photo of his wife in an embrace with a friend.

  The photo was new - he remembered exactly how Jennifer bought this blue dress, which clung like a glove to every curve of her body. He frowned and tapped the screen, not hoping for a miracle. But it happened - there was no blockage. There were many folders with photographs, and he opened one after another, flipping through the ones he had taken the other day. And then I saw ... Jennifer in the club, Jennifer with dazzling red eyes waving her hand, sitting on the lap of a man. Jennifer and Courtney are bending over two paths, looking at each other ... There were a lot of photos, and with each new frame the veil in front of my eyes became thicker, ringing in the temples.

  He could hardly wait for the morning, sitting in an armchair opposite the sofa, holding a phone in his hands. During this night, thousands of guesses and conjectures were formed and scattered in my head. He managed to accuse, pronounce a sentence and acquit, hoping that he was wrong. Eyes hurt, my head was splitting with pain, but there was no sleep. Several times during the night, Chris wanted to break loose and run. Leave here, where your eyes are looking, without turning around. But he could not prevent her from making excuses. Therefore, when Jennifer woke up, slowly sitting down on the couch, he turned his head towards her, watching, but slowly revealing himself. She noticed him only when she got up, staggering, and shuddered in surprise.

  — Have you been sitting for a long time? She asked hoarsely, looking for an open bottle of water that was lying under the table.

  — Since the evening, - Chris answered quietly, following her fussy movements. Strange, but now my soul was completely empty. No love, no hate - just a gaping hole, bottomless, coal-black.

  — We celebrated Courtney's departure yesterday, ”Jennifer shrugged apologetically. - Slightly overdone.

  — I see. - He continued to look calmly, coldly, and Jennifer, expecting the usual reprimand, felt uneasy.

  — I'm sorry, - she asked with the familiar intonation of the nagging child. - You know - we rarely see each other.

  — I know, ”Chris nodded, lifting the phone in his hand. - Don't you need to fly to anyone else for the funeral? Would Courtney's father decide to die again?

  Jennifer turned pale, a frightened gaze darted to the phone and back. But she quickly pulled herself together, lifted her chin, and looked defiantly at her husband:

  — So what? Yes, I went to have fun. What else could I say?

  — Maybe the truth? Chris growled, feeling himself starting to get turned on. - What are you going to rest with your friends?

  — You hatemy friends!

  — Because they turn you into an animal! - He abruptly got up, in two steps overcame the distance separating them and poked the screen in the face. - Who is this man?

  — Don't act like Othello, ”Jennifer snorted derisively.

  — Who is this man?

  — How do I know? - she waved it off, pouring a persistent smell of fumes. - We saw each other once in a lifetime.

  — Did you have something with him?

  — And if there was, then what? Jennifer glared at his face with a sassy look. - What are you going to do to me? Are you filing for divorce? So you will be the first to crawl on your knees! As if I don't know. She shrugged and turned to leave, but Chris grabbed her shoulder tightly, turning her to him.

  — Did you have something with him? He repeated tensely.

  — Yes! Jennifer gasped, smiling broadly. - He fucked me all night, and I moaned like a cheap whore, as I never moaned under you, because he ...

  Chris himself did not remember how he hit her. Jennifer was just standing opposite, and the next second she was sliding down the wall, leaving a crimson print on the mother-of-pearl wallpaper. She flew her temples into the corner of the forged shelf and sank to the floor, already dead.

  “Lived happily ever after and died on the same day” almost worked out because Chris decided he died with her.

  They drove for four hours to the town of Wola Walla and the state county jail. And if at first Chris was still in apathy, paying little attention to his surroundings, then at the end of the journey he gradually began to emerge from the fog of indifference, starting to look at his fellow travelers. By and large, everyone was silent, immersed in their thoughts. They sat with their heads bowed, or thoughtlessly stared out the window. Chris looked down at his handcuffed hands, glanced sideways at his neighbor - the stout African American chewed his lip incessantly, muttering to himself. Ahead was a nimble Mexican who, catching Chris's eye, smiled amiably and winked.

  — Have you come to your senses? Will you be long?

  — Fifteen. - Lips moved with difficulty, the phrase itself did not fit in my head, the term, which still seemed to be an empty set of letters, and even more so.

  The Mexican whistled, looked respectfully:

  — One hundred twenty-fifth?

  Chris blinked, not immediately grasping what he meant. The guy explained:

  — Article. Murder?

  Murder. He killed a man and will now bear the punishment he deserves. Until now, I could not believe that this is actually happening. It still seemed that he was about to wake up, and Jennifer would brush her hair f
rom her forehead and smile softly, cooing that she loved.

  — Yes. - Chris barely returned to reality.

  — And I have two hundred and twenty-fourth. - The Mexican looked as if he was expecting some kind of reaction. But Chris was silent, and he explained: - Credit card fraud, seven years.

  There was another silence, the first buildings appeared in the distance, and to the left - the gloomy bulk of the prison, where the bus turned.

  — First walker? - the Mexican nodded knowingly, correctly assessing the silence of Chris. He nodded sullenly, feeling his heart beating against his will more often with every yard, which brought him closer to the barbed-wire walls.

  Awareness of the reality of what was happening was overtaken later, in all its ugliness, when the new arrivals were lined up, forced to strip naked, and a humiliating search was conducted.

  —Bend it girls! - shouted the warder, passing along the prisoners. - Show your buns to dad Charlie, he will be able to discern all the talents hidden in you!

  Cheeks were burning from humiliation, my temples were beating dully, hard, I wanted to send everything to hell and knock out the teeth of the grinning man in gloves, who was examining the anus so carefully, as if he hoped to find a gold bar, no less. But there was no longer the right to vote. Now Chris was forced to live by the prison rules. Get up when they say, go to bed, go where they say and forget about the past, about who you once was. A new life began, measured, lined like a notebook in a cage, and through the same cage the sky was now looking at him - a tiny piece under the ceiling in the cell.

  After a shower, they were given a uniform with a number, shoes, and underwear. Even what they brought

  I had to hand over Patek Philippe with the watch - my mother's birthday present. Chris unbuttoned the bracelet and looked at them longingly, almost physically feeling the last connection with home breaking.

  A large white man of about forty was already sitting in a cell for two. He cast a sullen glance from under his brows as he watched Chris arrange things on the bottom shelf. Then he dangled his huge paw and muttered:

  — Stan.

  — Chris.

  — How many?

  — Fifteen.

  Chris gradually began to realize that your past life didn't matter here. Only the article and the severity of the crime committed. The first dinner in the dining room was relatively calm - they looked at him, like everyone else, but they were in no hurry to make acquaintances or cling to them. Only the nimble Mexican seemed to feel like a fish in water, quickly finding old acquaintances, and by the end of dinner he was already laughing at the table. The first night Chris hardly slept - heavy steps down the corridor, shouting of guards, muffled whispers of prisoners, occasionally laughter, more often groans and choked cries. Stan was snoring serenely, letting on gas, someone behind the wall sobbing angrily into his pillow. Personal hell, into which he drove himself, began the report at fifteen years.

  — Hey handsome! - Attempts to trample and show who is in charge here began after lunch, when Chris, shoving a jelly-like porridge into himself, was waiting for a call, which meant the end of the reception food. TO waddlingly approached him three: white, large, from insolentsmirks on faces devoid of intelligence. Chris tensed, feeling every muscle in his back, and looked up calmly - he was as confident in his strength as possible here.

  — Look at what eyes! - One sat down next to the bench, bending over and looking into the face. - It seems my heart is broken!

  His friends whinnied, pushing each other, the prisoners sitting nearby began to slowly dissolve, making room.

  —What's hiding under this shirt? A hand reached out to his chest, trying to get between the buttons, but Chris grabbed his wrist abruptly, pressing his thumb into a vein. The man howled, making a rapid lunge with his second hand, but she was also in a tenacious grip.

  — If you want to find yourself a girl, you turned to the wrong address, ”Chris said calmly, not taking his deadly cold gaze. The friends turned around, slowly approaching, and Chris, throwing away other people's hands, got up, mechanically dusting himself off, and went to the exit.

  The second time they drove up to him in the shower, this time two. They acted in silence, beat quietly, while Chris tried to wash his eyes from the hot soapy foam. The first blow fell on the kidneys, and immediately, preventing him from recovering, into the solar plexus, forcing him to bend. They beat him quickly, competently, and when they left, he lay for another minute, trying to catch his breath, watching the blood, mixing with water, drain into the drain on the floor. There was no anger, there was despair, dreary, deaf. Who in this cesspool understands the words about dignity, rules, honor? It has its own honor, its own rules, and dignity is an impermissible luxury that is very easy to lose.

  Everything was decided in the yard on the fourth day of imprisonment. Chris was sitting gloomily on the table, watching the basketball players, when a Mexican friend approached him. He sat down next to me and grunted:

  — They beat you pretty well, huh?

  Chris glanced at him, not trying to figure out how he knew. Here, every sneeze spread throughout the prison, it was not worth trying to hide something.

  — By the way, my name is Tony. The Mexican held out his hand. - You're Chris? I heard about you, you killed your wife, right?

  There was no point in answering, the question would clearly be from the category of rhetorical.

  — A big man wants to talk to you. Let's go to.

  It was also pointless to deny - if one of those who kept order decided something, then personal preferences faded into the tenth plane. Chris and Tony crossed the courtyard and stopped at a bench where a lean, tattooed man of about sixty was lounging on.

  — So you're Christopher Labert? - He gave Chris an attentive look and nodded - a tightly built guy came out from behind, playing with his biceps. - Show what you are capable of.

  A hail of blows fell suddenly, without warning, and Chris had no choice but to fight back, at first going on the defensive. But as soon as the enemy loosened up the pressure and opened up, he immediately missed the blow, and now the advantage went over to Chris's side. A series of short, accurate hits, culminating in a powerful uppercut, from which the guy, clacking his teeth, fell to the ground - Chris straightened up, breathing heavily, casting a quick glance at the observer.

  “Okay,” he nodded, pointing with his eyes to the spot next to him. “I’m Dick Architect, and you suit me. I need guys like you - who know how to stand up for themselves and cover their backs in case of anything. If you walk under me, I will be guaranteed protection from the encroachments of others.

  — what is required of me? - Chris asked gloomily, trying his tongue inside his cheek, which was bleeding.

  — Full and unconditional obedience to the order, no questions asked. I read your file - you served. So you know what's what. Dick shrugged. - If you obey, we won't have any problems. Did you get it?

  That evening Chris joined the Architect's gang. A week later he got his first tattoo - two cubes passing through each other on his left shoulder. And he also learned from Tony where Dick got his nickname - he skillfully butchered people, collecting geometric shapes from body parts.

  Chris was more afraid of the first date with his parents than a new day in prison. They were sitting behind glass - so close and so far away at the same time. The difference between this world and this has never seemed so obvious: dressed with a needle, smelling of expensive perfume and freedom on the one hand, and he, who has already managed to absorb the stench of a prison cell. It was difficult for the mother, he saw it. She could not utter a word, sobbing muffled.

  — Denise says we have a good chance of getting the case reviewed. “My father seems to have aged ten years during this month. - She will come later, delayed.

  — I don’t think it’s possible. Chris smiled faintly.

  — How are you doing? - burst out from his father.

  — Could be worse. - And it was true.

  — We
are waiting for you at home.

  "House". At this word, a lump grew in my throat, sharp, making it difficult to inhale. Chris nodded, tried to smile, but it didn't work out well. He was ashamed of his thoughts, of the desire to leave here, of the desire to leave with his parents, as in childhood, when they were late at work, and he sat alone in elementary school and waited. And now the worst childhood nightmare comes true

  — the parents came for him, but they leave without him. And he remains.

  Denise did not come that day, but she knocked out a meeting for the next in a separate room as a lawyer. With a businesslike air, she laid out the papers on the table, looked at something for a long time without raising her eyes, and finally made up her mind - she looked, sparkling with tears.

  — We will appeal, - unlike the expression on his face, the voice sounded dry and collected. - We have every chance to demand a reconsideration of the case, at the moment I am collecting dirt on Jennifer. Forgive me, but it is difficult to call her a saint.

  Chris grimaced - in his heart he still considered her his wife. All thoughts, feelings, memories of marriage were gathered in one back room, behind a door closed for several locks. And Chris was desperate to open it.

  —If there is even the slightest opportunity to cut the deadline, ”Chris sighed,“ use it. Whatever it takes.

  — I will do everything possible. Denise put her hand over his and shook it weakly. “The thought of what you have to endure makes my heart squeeze.

  “Save your nerves for the trial,” Chris grinned wryly. - And I'm not a little boy, I can handle it.

  And he really did manage. They say that you get used to the good quickly, and you get used to the bad, but slowly. Service in the army helped in many ways, the habit of self-discipline, of getting up and down, of subordination and the ability to obey orders played a good service. When you can bring the unfamiliar to the usual denominator, it becomes easier. Six months later, between the Architect and Moses, the head of the Negro clan, there was a skirmish that cost several broken limbs and knocked out teeth from the second. Chris got a second tattoo and climbed a little higher in the hierarchy of Dick's assistants. A month later, his father died. The mother arrived a week later and delivered the news, looking straight ahead. After Chris was imprisoned, Labert Sr. was asked to step down as vice president, and he hid it from his son until the last. Left without work, began to closely engage in business, but he quickly went bankrupt - he had to sell all the ships, and still there were debts. Denise came once a month, and her mother soon fell ill and fell ill. She left quietly, at Christmas, without having time to say goodbye to her son.