Safe in the Darkness

The sun set earlier these days, but the impending darkness had not deterred Ike from taking this particular after dinner walk. He was full, sated from his meal of a microwavable Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes. He bought the special rib-sticking combo especially for this evening, well aware he would need something more than his usual fare of canned soup and a buttered roll to sustain him.

He walked at a moderate pace, enjoying the crisp pine scented air and the way the last amber rays of sunlight filtered through the trees before they winked once, twice, then died away.

"Goodbye," he murmured in a pale shadow of the gruff voice that used to cause women to flutter around him like they were his private collection of butterflies. But the passage of time and his daily fix of Jack Daniels made him sound more like the worn out 50-year-old he had become.

The toe of his boot kicked up a cloud of dirt, but the further he walked, the sooner the dirt would turn to gravel, which would then transform into a cement driveway lined with hostas and coral bells surrounding Jaguars and BMWs. Through the trees he could just make out the white roof and arched windows of the house he knew so well.

His shoulders ached from his backpack's leather straps, so he shrugged off the pack, easing it to the ground before sitting beside it. His back pressed against the elm that used to be home to rabbits before he flushed them out. That was years ago, when the kids were small, when he let them watch him work against their mother's wishes. But the kids were grown now, gone from this home that used to be his too. Things had changed. It wasn't their fault, though, not at all.

Crickets chirped to announce the arrival of nightfall. A sudden flapping of wings caused leaves to rustle as birds settled into their nests, where they would be safe in the dark until morning. Safety in Ike's world was a luxury he could no longer afford. Living in a squalid fifth floor apartment in a six story walk-up provided him none of the amenities he had grown used to while living in that house beyond the woods. His current neighbors were crack addicts, hookers, and pushers, a far cry from the wealthy and powerful people he used to deal with daily. Fate was unkind. Eleven years gone in an instant. In his world now, the winter's cold seemed to extend through late spring, when a stifling heat took its place until winter came around again.

It's so cold, Theresa.

That's not my problem.

Can't you help me out with a few dollars?

Go before I call the police.

Please...

The police had been a fixture in Ike's life over the past four years. And honestly, he hadn't minded prison too much. He didn't have to think in there. He had his meals, such as they were. It was cool in the summer, warm in the winter. These simple amenities were provided to him by the law-abiding taxpayers of Michigan. Where were they now when he really needed them?

His job in the prison library cataloging books kept him busy and away from the trouble that often plagued first-timers. He learned soon enough to keep his mouth shut and do what he was told. He never had a problem with the corrections officers or those inmates who smoked cigarettes and played cards and thought they were in charge. They called him Drifter, because that's what he did, just drifted along, seemingly without a care.

In many ways, being in jail was better than being out on his own. Now he lived on partial state assistance, while working 20 hours a week at the Bellefleur Rehab Facility, emptying trash and cleaning toilets, a job procured for him by a prisoner rehabilitation group. He would never have made the effort to find it himself.