Triptych

John said, “I had to see you.”

Ben tsked his tongue, and John tried not to think about what the man would have in his mouth right now if the cops hadn’t caught him. “Didn’t I tell you not to ever come back to this hell hole?”

“It’s good to see you,” John said, and he meant it. He hadn’t seen a welcoming face since he’d gotten out.

“Well,” Ben said, smacking his lips. “What have you brought me?”

John took the carton of unfiltered Camels out of the bag.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have!” Ben cradled the carton to his chest. “My sweetness, please do sit. You know I don’t like hovering even if it does give me a wonderful view of your package.”

John sat, feeling embarrassed by Ben’s language. He had forgotten how Ben spoke to him, the way he made you feel dirty even if he was just asking you what time it was. John had to remind himself this was part of Ben’s act, the way he got through the day without cutting his own throat open.

Ben confided, “Oprah is doing her favorite things today.”

Oprah, the only program the entire cell bloc could agree on.

“I’m sure it’ll be a good one,” John said. He didn’t add anything else as a guard walked by, lingering near their table for a few minutes before moving on.

“Now,” Ben said, “you know I can’t stay away from my nicotine for long. What do you desire?”

John leaned in close, keeping his hands fiat on the table so the guard could see he wasn’t doing anything to break the rules. “I’ve got a problem.”

“I assumed as much.”

The guard had moved on. John resisted the urge to look over his shoulder. Ben was scoping out the situation behind him just as John was keeping his eye on everyone behind Ben.

“Precious,” Ben said, “let’s keep in mind the walls have ears.”

The tables, more like. John wasn’t sure whether it was true or not, but everyone in the prison believed there were bugs all over the visitors’ room- some under the tables, some overhead in the fluorescent lights. The cameras were visible enough, sweeping the room back and forth, zooming in on suspicious visitors. You couldn’t trust a priest in here.

In low tones, John told Ben about the television, the credit report, the post office. He told him about the man with the umbrella, careful not to say his name because who knew if the rumors were true.

When he had finished, Ben said, “I see.”

John sat back a little. “What should I do?”

Ben’s full lips pressed together and he put his finger where the black dot was burned into the flesh. “The question, my love, is not an easy one.

“He’s jacking me up for something,” John said, then, because he wasn’t sure, Right?“

“Oh, indeed,” Ben agreed. “There’s no other reason for this type of behavior. No reason at all.”

“He’s using me as a cover.”

“He’s framing you, my love.”

John shook his head, leaning in close again. “It doesn’t make sense. This started six years ago. I was in here six years ago. It’s an airtight alibi.”

“True, true,” Ben agreed, tapping his finger to his lip again. “Did he know you got out?”

John shrugged. “He could find out.”

“But did he know?” Ben said. “I must say, my darling, that it came as a surprise even to me when you spoke so eloquently to the parole board. Such a silver tongue.”

John nodded. He had surprised himself.

“Let’s pose a what-if,” Ben suggested. “What if your friend assumed you would rot away here in our little Maison du Feces?”

“Okay.”

“And what if, much to his surprise, he found our little darling boy got out?”

“Yeah?”

“And what if he felt threatened by your return?” Ben leaned in closer. “He has something going, obviously.”

“Yes,” John agreed.

“And he doesn’t want you to interfere with this little side thing, does he?”

“Right.”

“So, what does he do?”

Both men went quiet, tried to think it to the next step.

“I don’t know,” John admitted, frustrated. “I need to find him.”

“You’ve tried all the obvious routes?”

“Yeah.” He had checked the phone book, but the guy wasn’t listed. He’d even tried the computer at the library, feeling like an idiot as he followed the printed directions on how to do an Internet search. Nothing.

John said, “I have to find out what he’s up to.”

Ben fingered the carton of cigarettes, picking at the edge. John knew he was ru

“You’ve still got people?” John was surprised Ben was admitting this where he might be heard. There had been “sources close to the case” at the time of Ben’s trial who claimed that he had used the post office’s intercompany mail to send some of his souvenirs to fellow fetishists.

Ben slapped on a wide smile. “Through rain, sleet and snow… but you have yet to tell me the information I need to know.”

The name. He needed the name. John glanced around, opened his mouth, but-

“Hush, hush,” Ben warned.

Another guard walked by, standing just opposite their table. Both men fell silent again, and John stared at his hands, questioning the logic of coming here. Who else could he talk to? He couldn’t get Joyce wrapped up in this. The only people he knew were convicted felons and whores.

The guard moved along and Ben made a fu

There was no explaining it except to say that Ben thought he and John were two of a kind.

“I’ll tell you what,” Ben said. “I have a car.”

“What?”

“It’s at my mother’s house. I’ll call her today and say a friend is going to borrow it.”

Ben was smarter at this than him. John was just going step by step, not even thinking it through. So what if he found out the guy’s address? It’s not like he could follow him around on a MARTA bus.

John asked, “Does it still run?”

“Mother used to drive it to church every Sunday but her gentleman friend, Mr. Propson, takes her now,” Ben said. “Beulah Carver. I daresay she’s the only one in the book. She’ll give you the key, but don’t tell her how you know me.”

“You’ve been in jail for almost thirty years. Don’t you think she’ll figure it out?”

“I kept men’s nipples in her refrigerator for three years and told her they were herbal treatments for alopecia. What do you think?”

John conceded the point.

“Okay.” Ben’s eyes darted somewhere over John’s shoulder, and he spoke quickly, dropping the act for a moment. “You need to follow him,” he said. “Follow this man and find out what he’s doing, where he’s going. Everything happens for a reason. Everything.” He stood as another guard walked by. “Now go, my love, and thank you for the lovely gift.” He tapped the carton of cigarettes.

John stood, too. “Ben-”

“Go,” he insisted, throwing his arms around John’s shoulders, hugging him close.

The guards converged en masse-physical contact was strictly forbidden-but Ben held on tight, his wet lips brushing just under John’s ear. He was laughing like a hyena when they pulled him off, but he had the presence of mind to hold on to the cigarette carton.

“Good-bye, sweet boy!” Ben called as they dragged him to the door.

John waved back, resisting the urge to wipe off Ben’s saliva until the man had been taken out of view.

About five years into his sentence, John had asked Ben why the older man never made a pass or tried anything with him. John was bigger then. Just like his mother had always predicted, he had finally grown into his hands and feet. Weights at the gym had bulked him up and he had enough hair on his body to warm a polar bear. • Ben had shrugged. “Don’t eat where you shit.”

“No,” John persisted, not letting him get away with a sarcastic non-answer. “Tell me. I want to know.”