The Morning That Did Not Feel Like Morning
The morning sun did not rise inside Block D.
It infiltrated.
Thin blades of pale November light slipped through the narrow reinforced windows near the ceiling and stretched across the concrete floor like prison bars made of gold. Outside, somewhere beyond the walls, the city was waking. Cars were moving through intersections. Coffee machines were humming in kitchens. Children were being rushed out of warm houses and toward school buses.
Inside the facility, morning arrived differently.
It arrived with metal.
A heavy perimeter door slammed somewhere down the corridor.
The sound rolled through Block D with the authority of a command.
Then came the fluorescent lights.
One by one, they flickered awake overhead, buzzing faintly as their cold white glow swallowed the darkness.
Arthur Pendelton opened his eyes.
For several seconds, he did not move.
He stared at the ceiling above his cot.
The paint had been peeling in the same corner for months. Sometimes the jagged shape reminded him of South America. On other mornings, it looked like a bird with broken wings.
Today, it looked like a scar.
Arthur slowly turned his head toward the small calendar taped beside his bed.
November 14.
He stared at the date.
Then he closed his eyes.
Forty.
The number felt heavier than it should have.
Forty years old.
Arthur had imagined his fortieth birthday many times.
He had imagined Sarah decorating the kitchen while pretending she was not decorating the kitchen. His wife had never been good at surprises because excitement always betrayed her. She would smile too much. Ask strange questions. Suddenly insist that Arthur not enter a particular room.
Their daughter Lily would probably wake him before sunrise.
She would climb onto the bed, carrying something she had made herself.
A card with crooked handwriting.
Maybe a drawing of the family.
Arthur would be standing in the middle with arms too long and legs too thin. Sarah would laugh at it. Leo would pretend he was too old to participate while secretly waiting for the pancakes.
And there would always be pancakes.
Burned around the edges.
Uneven.
Too much syrup.
Lily would insist she had helped.
Sarah would insist that Lily had done almost everything.
Arthur would know perfectly well that Sarah had cooked them all.
That was how birthdays worked in the Pendelton household.
They were noisy.
Messy.
Warm.
There were balloons attached badly to door frames and wrapping paper left on the floor long after breakfast was finished.
There was laughter.
There were arguments about candles.
There were photographs.
There was life.
Arthur opened his eyes.
The ceiling was still there.
The fluorescent lights buzzed.
A guard shouted instructions somewhere down the hallway.
His cell was empty.
Thomas, his seventy-year-old cellmate, had been transferred to the medical wing two days earlier.
Arthur had not realized how much Thomas's quiet breathing at night had helped until it disappeared.
Now there was only silence.
Not peaceful silence.
The kind of silence that forced memories to speak louder.
Arthur sat up slowly and placed his feet on the freezing concrete floor.
For several seconds, he remained there.
Forty.
He rubbed his face.
His beard was rough.
His hands looked older than he remembered.
Before prison, Arthur had been the kind of man who worried about details.
He wore tailored suits.
He polished his shoes.
He adjusted the knot of his tie three or four times before leaving for work.
He managed one of the regional offices of a large accounting firm.
He had employees.
Clients.
Meetings.
Deadlines.
A reputation.
Now he wore a gray jumpsuit with a number printed near the chest.
Arthur Pendelton had become Inmate 44721.
He looked toward the polished metal mirror above the sink.
The reflection staring back at him was difficult to recognize.
The man in the mirror had silver in his hair.
Deep lines around his eyes.
Hollow cheeks.
A tiredness that seemed permanent.
Arthur stood and crossed the cell.
He turned the stiff faucet.
Ice-cold water struck his hands.
He splashed it onto his face.
For one brief moment, the shock made him feel awake.
Then it faded.
He looked at himself again.
“Happy birthday to me,” he whispered.
The words sounded pathetic.
He hated himself for saying them.
He turned away.
Today would be like every other day.
Breakfast.