I have wished for a comm a hundred thousand times an hour since they stuck m_n this shithole, and now that I have one, I don’t know who to call. No_mart. Not happy.
I run my fingers over the keypad, think about all the stupid, terribl_ecisions that I made on the way to this place in my life. I feel like I coul_urst into tears, like I could tear the hair out of my head, like I coul_ound my fists bloody on the floor. My fingers, splayed over the keypad, ta_ut the old nervous rhythms of the phone numbers I’ve know all my life, m_irst house, my Mom’s comm, Gran’s place.
Gran. I tap out her number and hit the commit button. I put the phone to m_ead.
“Arthur, I’m so worried about you. I spoke to your cousins yesterday, the_ell me you’re not doing so good there.”
“No, no I’m not.” The stitches in my jaw throb in counterpoint with my back.
“I tried to explain it all to Father Ferlenghetti, but I didn’t have th_etails right. He said it didn’t make any sense.”
“It doesn’t. They don’t care. They’ve just put me here.”
“He said that they should have let you put your own experts up when you ha_our hearing.”
“Well, of course they should have.”
“No, he said that they had to, that it was the law in Massachusetts. He use_o live there, you know.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Oh yes, he had a congregation in Newton. That was before he moved to Toronto.
He seemed very sure of it.”
“Why was he living in Newton?”
“Oh, he moved there after university. He’s a Harvard man, you know.”
“I think you’ve got that wrong. Harvard doesn’t have a divinity school.”
“No, this was after divinity school. He was doing a psychiatry degree a_arvard.”