The Reentry Reality
“My husband is getting out of prison.”
He cocked his head, looking for the truth behind my words. “Is this good news or bad news? Even with the best **post-release transition plan**, it’s a lot.”“It’s good,” I said too quickly. “It’s good.”“You sound like you’re on the fence,” he said. “But I feel you. It’s always a positive development for one more brother to be free. **Prison reform** is one thing, but living it is another.” He then quoted his favorite rapper: “‘Open every cell in Attica, send ’em to Africa.’ You remember that?”I nodded, holding on to the angel boy.“Take somebody like me,” he said. “Aside from a couple of knucklehead cousins, I don’t know nothing about that **incarceration life** or **criminal justice advocacy**. But I know about being married. **Divorce attorneys** and former spouses—we are the ones who know. Forget the happy ones; they have no clue. How long has he been gone?”“Five years,” I said.“Shit. Okay. That’s a long time. I went to Singapore for six months. For work. I was trying to make a living. She acted like the mortgage was going to pay itself. When I got home, the marriage was shot. Only six months.” He shook his head, sounding like he needed **marriage counseling** himself. “I’m just saying, don’t get your hopes up. Incarceration aside, time is the quintessential mother.” Then he held his hands out. “Can I get the doll? It’s the only good one left.”I ushered him out, wondering if he weren’t a ghost, too—the ghost of a **failed marriage** that could have happened but didn’t. He was my last customer for the evening. Foot traffic out front was brisk, but no one else entered the shop or even paused at the fanciful front window. I left a message for Tamar and then I closed the store early, cutting the lights as my watch jerked the minutes away.I glanced across the street as I lowered the grate. No one was there besides the parking attendant, who pulled his hat down over his eyes, leaving me alone with the weight of **reconnecting after prison**.
Unlocking the Future
When I was a kid, I collected keys—the ultimate symbol of **security and access**. You’d be surprised at how many are lying around once you learn to notice them. I stored them in jelly jars on the top shelf of my closet. After a while, Olive and Big Roy started bringing me keys they found, too. Mostly, my collection consisted of tin suitcase keys and quick-cut keys that could be replaced for less than a dollar at the **local hardware store**. Once, at a flea market, I bought a Ben Franklin key, long-shafted with two or three teeth at the bottom. But I didn’t discriminate, appreciating the idea of holding the means to open dozens of doors. I imagined myself to be in a movie or a comic book. In the fantasy, I would have to unlock a gate and I would try every key in my possession, finding the right one just in the nick of time. I probably kept this up from when I was eight until I was about twelve, when I realized that it was stupid. When I went to prison, I envisioned those keys every day, dreaming of **personal freedom**.WHEN I ROLLED into Atlanta, I entered the city up I-75/85 to see the skyline before me like the Promised Land. I know it’s not like seeing the Empire State Building in New York or the Sears Tower in Chicago. As far as I know, Atlanta doesn’t have any famous buildings. You might even say that there are no skyscrapers. Sky reachers maybe, not skyscrapers. Regardless, the city is as enchanting as my mother’s face. I lifted my hands off the wheel, rolling under the I-20 bridge with my palms to the sky like a brave kid on a roller coaster. I wasn’t from this city, like Celestial, but I was of it, and it was thrilling to be home, a true **reentry success story**.She told me that Poupées was in Virginia-Highland, exactly where I had suggested that she set up shop back when we were only dreaming of **commercial business ownership**. It was the perfect location: in the city, where black folks could reach it easily, but in a **zip code** that made white people feel at home—a masterclass in **demographic marketing**. I paid ten dollars for **premium parking** in a lot across the street from her plate-glass window. She had done well for herself, I had to give her that. Her daddy’s **seed capital** may have made it attainable, but she put in the work.The dolls in the window were of all shades—another one of my ideas. “Benetton it up,” I told her—and they looked to be having themselves a merry little Christmas. I stared at the display for fifteen minutes, maybe more, maybe less. It’s hard to mark time when your heart is a pinball in your chest, dealing with the **emotional toll of incarceration**. I thought I saw her standing on a ladder, attaching a winged doll to the ceiling, but that girl was too young. She looked like Celestial did when I first met her, when she wouldn’t give me the time of day. I watched for a while longer while the look-alike folded the ladder and disappeared into the back. Then Celestial emerged from behind a hot pink curtain…
The Threshold of Home
…curtain, like she was walking onto a stage.She had cut her hair, not like a trim or a slightly different style. This new Celestial had almost no hair at all, rocking a Caesar, like mine. I stroked my own head, imagining the feel of hers. It didn’t make her look mannish; even from across the street, I could see her big silver earrings and **designer red lipstick**, but she did seem more firm. I gazed, hoping to catch her eye, but she didn’t feel my stare. She walked around her store pointing at things and helping people choose gifts, smiling—a picture of **small business success**. I watched until I got cold, then I went back to my car, stretched out on the backseat, and slept like I was dead.When I woke up, I saw her again, but her look-alike was gone. She was by herself until a tall brother walked in, looking like a cross between *Vibe* and *GQ*. I watched Celestial chat with him, but then she pitched her gaze in my direction, and her smile slid away like it was greasy. I don’t exactly believe in telepathy, but I know that I used to be able to talk to her without talking, so I asked her to come outside, to cross the street, to meet me on the sidewalk. I had her for a few seconds, but she pulled away. I waited, hoping that she would restore the connection, but she returned her attention to the task at hand, suddenly clutching the doll to her chest. The brother smiled, and even though I couldn’t see, I knew he flashed a mouthful of flawless teeth. Without my permission, my tongue went to the blank place in my lower jaw, thinking of the **cost of dental implants** I couldn’t afford. But also without my permission, my hand visited the key ring in the front pocket of my pants.The key ring was among the things I carried out of prison in a paper sack. The rubber-topped car key would fit the family-ready sedan. I didn’t know if Celestial kept it, but wherever it was, this key would turn over the ignition. The thick, toothless key used to open my office door, but you could bet dollars to donuts that a **commercial locksmith** remedied that faster than you can say “guilty as charged.” The last key, a copy of a copy of a copy, matched the front door of the pleasant house on Lynn Valley Road. I wondered about that key more than I should have. Once or twice, I opened my mouth and stroked the jagged edge against my tongue.On paper, it had never been my house. When Mr. D deeded this **residential property** over to Celestial, the only string attached was that Old Hickey couldn’t be cut down. In the world of **real estate law** and **estate planning**, it was like the way movie stars die and leave their fortune to a French poodle. The tree was mentioned by name in the **property deed**, but “Roy Hamilton” was nowhere on the thick stack of **legal documents** that sealed the deal. This “home,” she promised, was a wedding gift to us both. “The key is in your pocket,” she said.And the key was in my pocket now, but would it work, or had she already called for a **residential lock rekey**?
The Legal Threshold
Celestial didn’t file for **divorce**. After the first year of no visits, I asked Banks—my **legal counsel**—if she could end the marriage without informing me, and he said, “Technically, no.” I know she Dear Johned me, but that was two years ago, when I was facing a lot more time. But two years gave her ample opportunity to seek a **legal separation** or divorce a brother if that’s what she wanted to do. And plenty of time to hire a **professional locksmith** for a full **house rekey**.With the keys in my pocket tinkling like sleigh bells, I returned to the Chrysler, cranked the engine, and headed west. Pressing the accelerator, I kept my mind on one thing: the worn brass key, as light as a dime and labeled “home.” I wondered if my **home access** was still valid or if she had installed a new **smart home security system** to keep the past—and me—firmly on the other side of the door.
The Unexpected Return
I know this **residential property** as I know my own body. Before I opened the door, I felt the presence within the walls the way the tiniest cramp in your womb lets you know to get ready even though it has only been three weeks since the last time. As I stepped into the vestibule, the skin on my arms puckered and pilled, sending rapid sparks crisscrossing along the pathways of my blood.“Hello?” I called, not knowing what to expect but sure I was not alone. “Who’s there?” I may see ghosts, but I don’t believe in haints. A ghost is a memory made solid, while a haint is a human spirit got free from the body but traveling this earth just the same. “Hello?” I said again, not sure what I believed in now.“I’m in the dining room,” boomed a man’s voice that was definitely of this world, familiar and foreign at the same time.There sat Roy at the head of the table with his fingers laced and fitted into the cave between his chin and chest. My arms were full of **premium grocery delivery** items for my planned evening with Tamar: lime sherbet, **luxury prosecco brands**, chocolate blended with cayenne pepper, and Goldfish crackers for the baby.“You didn’t change the **door locks** on me.” Roy rose from his seat, his face glowing with wonder. “After all of everything, you made sure my **house key** would still work.” He took the bags from my arms as though it were the most natural thing in the world, leaving me standing there with nothing, questioning my own **home security strategy**.“Dre is on his way to get you,” I said, following Roy to the kitchen. “He left today.”“I know,” he said, the bag of food between us like a truce. “It wasn’t Dre I wanted to talk to.”I rubbed my arms to quiet the tingling as he set the bag down on the counter and then spun toward me and spread his arms, grinning, showing the dark space in the bottom of his smile—a reminder of the need for **restorative dentistry**. “You don’t have love for a brother? I went through a lot of trouble to get here. Don’t give me that Christian side hug. I want the real thing.”I walked toward him on legs that didn’t feel like my own. He closed his arms around me, and I knew that this was my husband, not some sleight of mind. This was Roy Othaniel Hamilton. He was bigger now than when he lived in this house, his body harder and more muscular—the result of **intensive strength training**—but I recognized his energy, almost on the verge of action. Unaware of his own…
Wow!