Thin Luck

THIN LUCK

by

Cori Lynn Arnold

All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The names, incidents, dialogue and opinions expressed are the products of the author's imagination and are not to be constructed as real. The events in this book are entirely fiction and by no means should anyone attempt to live out the actions that are portrayed in the book.

Copyright © 2016 Cori Lynn Arnold

All rights reserved.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Chapter 1

Connecticut - Section 53a-110 (a)

Criminal Trespass

I STARED AT the same dull grey concrete. I traced over the cracks and etched out graffiti like I had so many days in my past, but this time my heart beat with anticipation. I would see my baby today, hear Kyle laugh for the first time, see his smile, touch his chubby little cheeks. His baby smell would clear my sinuses of all the rot they’d been exposed to for the last two years.

Today, I would be free.

So, what, you’re gonna lay there all morning? Carla asked. My cellmate’s voice grated as it always had, but the last few days made her voice sound more like a bolt in a blender—a strange mix of grinding and high-pitched whine.

Yes, I said.

Your loss, Carla said. I’m going down for the bacon. Can’t you smell that?

I ignored her. Sure the bacon smelled like bacon, but it tasted like molded shoe leather.

Peterson showed up at my cell at one o’clock. Ready? she asked with a swing of her keys.

Yeah.

Peterson pointed her stubby black finger down the hall. This way.

I knew the way. Today wasn’t my only taste of freedom. I’d left the prison two other times in the last two years. The first time, six months ago, I met with the state prosecutor. He was a dandy with his pink suspenders and purple polka dot bow tie. I got the feeling he spent as much time combing his hair as making illicit phone calls. Antique pieces covered in gold and marble furnished his grand office. I felt out of place in my plain khaki uniform. But I was just a prison snitch, no more important to him than the neatly stacked files on his desk.

The second time I walked out of the prison was less than a month ago. I testified in front of a grand jury wearing a dress so modest it looked stolen from an Amish girl who long ago left for her Rumspringa. Luckily I didn’t trip over the hemline. I wondered if, in some cosmic twist of fate, the Amish girl wore a miniskirt I had donated to Goodwill.

Based on my testimony in front of the grand jury, Carla would do a lot more time. Even more importantly, the state prosecutor needed me to testify at Carla’s trial about her methods for smuggling drugs into prison. Carla didn’t know this, of course, or I wouldn’t be breathing. She’d find out soon enough. The point of getting me out of prison was to press charges against Carla without me getting killed.

Once I passed the final gate, Peterson placed two manila envelopes and a plastic bin in my hands. Personal effects. Take your stuff there. Change. Peterson pointed to the bathroom.

I never liked the fragmented sentences uttered by the guards, but I’d long ago suppressed my need to correct them. I corrected a guard once for saying tooken instead of taken. She punched me in the gut. The stern warning echoed from my left ear through the pain in my abdomen and out through the cellblock. Carla liked to say that was my first lesson in manners, and she took over as my prison etiquette coach after that.

I didn’t remember what was in the plastic bin, but the smell of my old perfume trapped inside for almost two years nearly knocked me over. The little black thong probably seemed like a great idea at the time. The skirt was too big. After handing Kyle over to the nurse six and a half months into my prison sentence, I’d lost nearly twenty pounds in the York Women’s Correctional facility. The weight stayed off, even with the over-processed, fatty foods served in the cafeteria. Maybe I could write a book: The Correctional Facility Diet. It could be a best seller like all those other fad diets.

Wayne, my producer at WFSB, told me to lose fifteen pounds when I worked as an investigative reporter for Channel 3 - Eyewitness News. He got his wish, but I knew my days in front of the camera were over. No one wanted to hire a convicted felon for an on-air investigative reporter. I was just twenty-five when I walked into York. Sara, the middle-aged Executive Producer at WFSB, said when I got out I’d still be young enough to bounce back to investigative reporting once I’d paid my debt to society. But in Sara’s day she could work her way up the print market while waiting for an opening at a local station. These days, local newspapers were on life support with eager national chains ready to pull the plug like million dollar beneficiaries. Local newspapers folded under as often as the statistics for heart attacks, likely one generating the other. One thing was true; I’d have to sniff out a good story—one even better than how drugs got into the prison—to go back to reporting in print or broadcast. That task was going to be harder than raking up leaves, cutting grass and shoveling snow in the city parks for the next six months during my parole.

Now fully dressed, I could see the details in the lace of my bra through my sheer white blouse. After two years of wearing a potato-sack khaki uniform, I felt exposed.

I fished in the first envelope for my wallet. There, inside, were my expired gold credit cards and a single hundred-dollar bill in the billfold.

The tattered edge of a picture just behind my driver’s license poked out. Nick sat on a big rock at the edge of the water looking out upon the ocean with his arms wrapped around me. The breeze tousled our hair. His smile reflected his contentment, not the conniving smile I was more familiar with.

Nick came less and less often to visit me in prison, only bringing Kyle a handful of times. He said it was too hard to bring Kyle, with all the baby stuff he had to haul. But I knew he plotted something. I knew the look in his eyes when he schemed, just like he knew when I lied.

His curiosity about prison and constant questions over the first year slowly dwindled down to nothing when I’d had no more new information to reveal. He completely stopped coming four months ago, and I hurried to put my plan for release into action.

He had many excuses about not coming, usually something to do with his busy writing schedule or Kyle feeling ill. How could I argue with him? I wanted what was best for Kyle.

The next picture I pulled out of my wallet was a much newer one of us at a Christmas party thrown by Nick’s publisher. Nick no longer sported his West Coast hairstyle—way too long and curly up top. At least he enjoyed it while he could. His hairline retreated faster than Napoleon’s army. My hair was long, with flaxen blonde curls, perfect for my time in front of the camera.

Only now, my hair was short and frizzy, easier to take care of with the less frequent showers and lack of proper hair care products. My sunken eyes made me look like a zombie. I pulled out my designer makeup. My muscle memory guided me through the steps of applying the concealer, eyeliner, mascara, and eyeshadow. I slipped the ring on my finger, a hollow form of fidelity if there ever was one.

I stumbled walking out of the bathroom in my high heels. They used to be like second nature. Peterson stifled a laugh, or maybe that was my ever-present paranoia.

Wait here, she said. Stewart will call you when your ride comes. Peterson held my hands like she was someone truly special in my life, ready to dole out advice. I don’t wanna see you back in here, got it?

Trust me, this is the last you’re going to see of me.

I sat on the orange plastic chair. I stared at the clock, 1:57. Nick would be there at 2:00, only three more slogging minutes. Each second ticked off, not on the second hand, but on the tedious minute hand. The motion was nearly imperceptible, but I watched it to the rhythm of my own beating heart.

The three minutes passed, and there was no Nick. I wrung my sweaty hands together. I wanted to clean them again before touching Kyle’s precious little fingers, but I didn’t want to ask Stewart, an aging Latina guard, to use the restroom.

My stomach growled. I was well past the scheduled feeding.

I looked at Stewart. Her fat ass was just about my eye level at the front desk. She turned around and looked down at me. Don’t worry. It takes time to get through the gates and check-in. He’ll be here. When she turned back, I saw that her panty line was clearly visible through the stretched fabric.

Another half hour passed.

An outside door opened and closed. Crisp, fresh air wafted into the stuffy room like a cloud. My heart fluttered. My back straightened in the chair. Popping sounds emanated from my spine.

A minute passed. He wasn’t there. I realized a few minutes later that the noises I heard were of a woman surrendering herself voluntarily, just like I did two years ago. The woman cried, just like I did. Perhaps this woman would take my bed, the top bunk in Carla’s cell. Maybe she, too, would be kidney punched every time she snored.

At 2:30 Nick still wasn’t there.

In the last two weeks, he hadn’t answered his phone, except once. Liz? he’d asked.

No, it’s Robyn. Who’s Liz? Why would she be calling you?

"Liz the maid. Why are you so paranoid? But he didn’t wait for me to answer. I’m in a meeting. What is it?"

Did you get my messages? I said. I’m released next Thursday, two o’clock. Can you make it?

Yes. I got your messages. I’ll be there.

You’ll bring Kyle?

I don’t have anywhere else to take him right now. The babysitter quit. I had to get Jeremy to take my classes this week.

A noise picked up from the background. I heard a baby crying. A lump formed in my throat. My chest hurt.

I got to go, he said. I’ll call you later.

You can’t call me. I have to call you.

Fine, call me around… He trailed off, and then his voice changed like he was talking to me through an echo chamber. No, I can’t do that. I— Another voice was in the background. Robyn, I have to go. The phone turned to dial tone.

I kicked the wall. My big toe ached as I worried the seams of my khaki uniform to tattered shreds while waiting. I never made it to the front of the line that night.

Stewart’s eyes were soft when she said, He’s probably just stuck in traffic. Do you want to call him?

Yes. I didn’t even think I could. Hadn’t dreamed of asking. I dialed the number for his cell on the phone Stewart handed me. A curt electronic voice told me to leave a message reading back the number I dialed. I tried again twice and got the same message. I slumped back down in the chair. I don’t understand. I wiped my hands on my skirt, trying to rid the sweat from my palms while also keeping it from sliding down past my waist.

Stewart didn’t meet my eyes. She had to be picturing some normal situation where the spouse of some hardened criminal ran off before the criminal got home. But it wasn’t like that. How could I correct her when she wasn’t saying anything but in my head?

At a quarter after three Stewart said, I’m sure he’s on his way, but I should start on the procedure for putting you on the bus just in case. She clicked through the computer screen. Bus leaves at 5:00 p.m. from Niantic going to Hartford. That’s your county, right? Says here in your file.

Yes, Hartford. I choked on the words. How could he not be here? What did he know?

You can ride the local bus from Hartford to West Hartford? Steward asked, but it was more of a statement than a question.

Yes.

I watched the clock. My hands shook. Where was he? What was he planning?

The printer came to life, whirring, buzzing making mechanical noises. Stewart pressed her finger on an intercom system. Officer George to the front, Officer George.

The little room became even more still. I leaned forward, straining to hear any noise, but there was nothing.

Officer George walked into the cramped office a few minutes later. What’s up, Stewart? He grinned ear to ear. He wore shiny boots and a pressed, fitted uniform. I’d never seen him before.

Her ride didn’t show.

Uh oh. Officer George frowned, much like a clown, over-exaggerating the drama. It happens. Let’s go. He waved his arms.

But— I was frozen. I was stuck between staying in prison and leaving without Kyle. My cellmate would kill me when she found out about what I’d done. I had no choice. I looked at the two guards, wondering what they thought of me. They both pitied me. My cheeks reddened. I cracked my knuckles.

Let’s go, Officer George said. You gotta make that bus or stay another night in prison.

That was enough to get me moving.

Stewart handed me the paper. Get on the bus. Do not sell this ticket to anyone for drugs. Her voice was harsh, frightening.

Yes ma’am, I said automatically, but I regretted it immediately. I was free. I didn’t need to be a polite automaton.

Stewart handed me the exact change for the bus to West Hartford, not a dime more than what was required.

Officer George walked me to his little white utility truck. I shivered in the blowing wind. My shirt stuck to me then puffed away. My lacy bra peeked through my shirt like a naked woman set to a slow strobe in a strip joint: naked, then hidden, naked, then hidden.

Hold on, he said. He ran back to the building. A yellow leaf hit the truck. In a few minutes, he ran back holding a red leather jacket.

Put this on, he said.

I held it out in front of me; the style was from the late seventies. Thanks. I felt warm the moment the wind was blocked.

Donations, he said. The clothes you girls wear for entry aren’t always weather-appropriate for release.

The view on the ride, filled with every shade of autumn, was dramatically different from the two years I’d spent in prison. The view from the prison was plain. There were few trees, just off in the distance, not enough to notice the seasons change except by the temperature. The state prosecutor picked the best season to release me from prison, although I probably would have marveled at the snow, fresh flowers and budded trees, or oppressive heat in any other season. But the fall was the most colorful season in Connecticut. Towns across the state would buzz with urban dwelling leaf-peepers.

Officer George made sure to fill the drive with drivel. Don’t do drugs at the bus station. There are undercover police selling drugs there. Just don’t do drugs, because they are going to test you the first day and those cleansing things don’t really work that fast. Make sure you show up for your parole officer at the appointed time. Don’t be late. I burned with rage with every condescending comment.

I didn’t say anything in return, hoping he might stop, but he kept on talking for the entire ride. My nails dug into my palms. My teeth would become powder if the ride went on much longer. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that dandy state prosecutor with his bright blue bow tie on a campaign sign. His smile on the billboard was hypnotic. We used each other to get what we both wanted. He vied to be an Attorney General for the state, and I planned to be a mother—a far better mother than my mother. Perhaps the dandy prosecutor had plans to be a better Attorney General than the man in the current position.

When we arrived at the bus terminal, Officer George let me out with a quick, Good luck, and then he was gone.

The bus station was small. A man in the throws of a passed-out-drunk sleep occupied one of the two benches. He snored like my dad did when he was drunk, talking to himself with an occasional snort. Another bench had a mysterious wet spot. I chose to stand. A few people stared at me. I tried not to make eye contact, staring straight ahead at the decrepit building. As I traced the calluses on my hands built over the last two years of prison labor, I burned with hatred for Nick. He should have been there. He should have picked me up. I should be kissing my baby right now.

My feet felt like rocks when the black woman at the counter mumbled, Hartford, bay three, leaving in seven minutes.

The bus smelled like a mixture of puke, pee, mold, and cotton candy. Puke, pee and mold I was used to from prison, but the cotton candy overtones made me sick. Most of the windows were marred by bored people etching crap like SLA + HAV 4 EVER into the glass.

Brilliantly colored leaves blurred along the highway to Hartford. I caught a glimpse of a billboard showing the perky blonde that took my place at WFSB, Sylvia – Three-time Emmy-Award-winning broadcast journalist, ready to take on the tough stories. Was Wayne producing Sylvia as well? What else had Sylvia done to replace me with Wayne? With three Emmys maybe he’d produced her even better than he had me.

I had just one Emmy. I won it for an investigative story into a school bus driver driving erratically. The ensuing accident left three children in the hospital. I discovered an eyewitness who said the driver was texting. The irony wasn’t lost on me two years later during my trial, nor was it lost on the state prosecutor or the twelve members of the jury. I got a five-year sentence for mowing down a pedestrian. She’d never walk again, and I’d never live my life the same again.

When we pulled up to the Hartford bus station, I remembered a story I’d done here about a man dying on the bus. No one noticed when he died, and he lay there for the better part of the hot day. He then lay unclaimed at the morgue for two weeks before being buried in a potter’s field. No one knew who he was or where he’d come from. If I died on the bus would Nick pick me up or would I be buried in a potter’s field? What would Kyle know about me? Only what was in the papers? Would Kyle ever learn the truth about his mother?

It rained as I began my walk to the local bus stop. I zipped up the red leather jacket and held my gigantic purse over my head. But the rain drove sideways. No matter how large my purse was, it wasn’t going to shelter me.

The nausea that started from the first bus continued on as the local bus twisted and turned along the route to West Hartford. I felt my hunger return as we passed the town’s many restaurants. I looked forward to a fancy pizza from the long-standing Alfredo’s, but that favorite from before my incarceration had closed and had been reincarnated into new place serving custom burgers. Weren’t they all custom? Do you ever go to a burger joint and ask for just any old burger they can think of at the moment?

The closer I got to my street, the hungrier I became. I pulled the yellow chain too early, and