The Last Slice

The Last Slice

“Beneath the surface, the truth gets high.”

CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

That’s the jarring sound I still hear echoing through the section as all thirty-two cells open one after another. My life still revolves around this,

CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

all day, every day.

It’s my 169th breakfast since I got out of quarantine and into minimum-security general population. Today also marks the first day I’m waking up in my new life with a laundry trustee job, and not a damn thing has changed during the day.

I still walk in the same line to get breakfast, then take my first Zyprexa of the day and go right back to sleep.

I still wake up about an hour before trays get here for lunch.

I still pretend like I’m sleeping until trays arrive, so no one bothers me while I gauge where the hell I am.

The ten minutes it takes after lunch for the trustees and copper to count the trays/spoons, give me time to make up a warm cup of instant coffee.

After getting a tray, I sit at the same spot, at the same table, with the same group for every meal now.

After lunch, we still go back to our cells to rack in until the tray cart leaves the section. The copper still starts clack-clacking two cells at a time for cell cleaning.

The cleaning still takes about forty-five minutes before,

CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

the day room opens. I up an Effexor, down some coffee, hit the shower, then head to the tables for another day of pinochle, smack-talk, and gossip.

CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

4:00 PM rolls around and we repeat the same routine as lunchtime; except we’re let out as soon as the trustees finish cleaning up after dinner.

Sometimes I’ll make a phone call at this time, and this is one of those nights.

As I get my father’s voicemail yet again, I feel a pit open in my gut. Something isn’t right. I try calling my mom and stepdad twice and get no answer. What in the fuck is going on? Did I do something wrong recently that I don’t realize? I pick up the phone to call my sister, and as I’m dialing her number, I hear the section door Clack-Clack open.

In walks a large transport copper dressed in black. On the fourth ring my sister answers, at the same time the copper dressed in black yells,

“KNIGHT, COME TO THE FRONT!”

“Hey sis, sorry bad timing. I just got called to the officer station; I’ll call you right back.”

I can hear the tears before she even starts talking. “Oh, Cillian, I’m so sorry. We just found out earlier today.”

She didn’t call me either of my nicknames like Cil or Silly C. Something very serious is going on. “Found what out? What do you mean? What happened, Sis?”

I watch the copper yell at the section again.

“KNIGHT, LET’S GO!”

“Just call me back as soon as you can,” she sobs.

I hang up and start walking toward the cop station. I glance at the tables, and Tad asks me what’s going on with a head raise. I respond with an exaggerated shrug.

“Got your I.D.?” the copper in black asks.

I respond by taking it out of my shirt pocket and hold it out in front of me.

He grabs it, chains me in cuffs, and says, “Follow me.”

“Where are we going?” I ask suspiciously.

He doesn’t look me in the eye when he says, “The chaplain’s office.”

The CO pops the door for us, but before we leave, I turn to the tables and yell, “He said I’m going to the chaplain’s office!” Even from a distance, I can see their faces fall.

The transport copper takes me through the massive hallways and into a carpeted room I’ve never been in before. Out of seven doors, only one is ajar.

A voice escapes from the open office: “Bring him in, please.”

The copper escorts me into the office and takes the seat between me and the holy man sitting behind the desk.

“Cillian, have a seat,” the chaplain commands softly.

That’s twice today I’ve heard my first name spoken with a concerning tone. I can’t help thinking back to that first day in general pop. The kind nurse calling my name just before I panicked into the darkness, then that same angelic voice pulling me back from the abyss.

I physically shiver as I mentally swim away from the past to shore up in the present.

“Cillian, thank you for coming in. I need to share something very difficult with you.”

He pauses, watching my body language before continuing. “I just received word that your father passed away earlier this morning. I know this is heavy news, and I’m here to supp-”

No.

Nope, nope, nope.

He’s got the wrong inmate.

Then why was my sister crying?

No, this isn’t real. It can’t be!

My world is completely blurred through the refraction of tears.

“How did he die?” I ask, cutting through whatever comforting words he was offering.

He looks at me softly before answering. “I was told the cause of death was a heart attack.”

My jaw clenches shut. I can’t move because I can’t feel my body from the neck down. I can’t do anything except stare past the chaplain, past the whole room, and see my father in my mind’s eye.

The picture of his kind face morphs into a video reel of my childhood: Learning to play chess on the board his father had passed down to him, with pieces his grandfather carved by hand. Making a pinewood derby car together to race in the boy scouts’ competition. Mowing lawns for the elderly around the neighborhood while he did the trimming. Learning how to clean correctly using the “three-step method” that he’d learned from his time working as a janitor. The laughs, shouts, and tears. But the strongest memories above all others, are the countless hours we spent debating, arguing, and discussing religion, and the purpose of our existence. The question of what ultimately actually happens when we die.

He never wavered in his belief that he could turn my mind and soul back toward his perceived God, and the faith of my Mormon ancestors. And I never wavered in mine. I believed I could gather enough evidence for him to finally accept his beliefs were a man-made set of rules, not a divinely chosen truth.

I remember a few years ago, we were driving on the freeway when he pointed to an area under construction along the mountain and started talking about high-density housing in the works because of the anticipated doubling of Utah’s population by 2030. After stating the fact, he immediately shifted to a prophecy from Mormon scripture about people “flocking to the tops of the mountains.”

I responded sarcastically, “Moving to the mountains, huh? Nobody would have done that if there weren’t prophecies, right?”

He had to stop and think for a moment before saying, “No, they would have done it, but the prophecies are there to say—” and then he spent the rest of our drive reciting the entire quote and its surrounding context.

The memory of his silly mannerisms while speaking makes me chuckle, causing the chaplain to break the extended silence with an awkward cough.

Another tear hitting my hand reminds me that I have a body. I blink away the remaining reminders so I can see where I am.

The chaplain senses I’m processing things deeply. “Cillian… I know this is heavy. I’m going to step out for a bit, but you’ll be okay. Take your time, breathe, and when you’re ready, you can head back to your section. If you need to talk more, I’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you for telling me too.”

He lets me have the last word, squeezing my shoulder as he walks past.

I sit in silence for a few moments, trying to motivate myself to move.

The motivation finally hits when I realize I need to go call my family.

I stand up and tell the copper, “I’m ready,” so he starts walking me back the way we came. As we’re entering the hallway, I almost run right into someone.

“Watch it!” Officer Parker squeaks as she sidesteps to avoid the collision.

“Sorry,” I say numbly.

“You need to be more careful, don’t you—”

The copper dressed in black cuts her off with one word. “Park.”

I can hear him doing charades behind me. I assume he’s doing the chopping hand against throat thing to tell her this is not an opportunity to give me a hard time.

She must have put two and two together, because she quietly goes, “Ohhh,” then a second later, “Sorry about that.”

I start walking and Officer Parker falls in step with the officer escorting me from behind.

Along the way, they chit-chat behind my back about some jail-staff drama. It’s only when she drops her voice to a whisper that I have to strain to eavesdrop, catching something like, “took him to the Dragons of Eden.” The rest of her whispered words blur together. I stop trying to listen because why would I give a shit anyways?

I don’t have an answer.