Weecho: First Shots

Chapter 4 - Prison Mom

The Bedford Hills Correctional Facility for Women was set in rolling pastureland an hour north of New York City. Weecho took the train from Grand Central to the laid back community of Bedford Hills itself, got off and almost forgot his package, had to run back and grab it off the seat. Crossed the street and caught a shuttle bus that had wire mesh over the windows, rode the winding back-roads to the maximum security prison that was home to his mother.  

Almost three years now since she’d murdered Weecho’s father. Who, in the opinion of people close to the situation, was an abusive sadistic drunk who deserved it. But that night when Weecho’s mother emptied the gun at her husband, she also killed the woman he was in bed with. A relative of the woman was a cop with courthouse muscle, the public defender assigned to Weecho’s mother was by all accounts brain dead, and so she wound up in the high-fenced countryside north of New York City. 

The shuttle bus swung through the outer-gate check-point, drove Weecho and about twenty other visitors, mostly grandmothers with their daughters’ kids, to the welcome area where they were given the traditional pat-down and scan. 

Weecho’s package, a box of chocolates, cleared security and he put it in one of the visitor lockers. Went through a series of metal doors to the visiting room where a tall, imposing black woman he’d gotten to know stood guard. 

“Hey, Tilda.” 

“Hey, Weecho.” 

“Everything good?” 

“Everything’s fine.” 

“How’s she doing?” 

“See for yourself.” 

A door opened across the room and in came his mother, Selena Marti, green prison jumpsuit, half-smile letting him know she was glad to see him, but didn’t for a second think he was out there being some angel. Weecho went over and gave her a hug, not much size to either of them, him kissing the brown face he wished he could bring home, even if sometimes she drove him nuts.   

They sat down on opposite sides of one of the picnic tables, couple of weeks now since they’d last seen each other, Weecho knowing what was coming. 

“What’s that under your nose?” 

“It’s temporary, Ma.” He’d been experimenting with a mustache. “I’m gonna shave it, don’t worry.”  

“Uh-huh. You eating?” Same question as always. 

“I’m doing fine, Ma. The Food Network’s my life.” 

“Don’t get smart.” 

He told her about the chocolates.  

“I told you no more.” She didn’t sound convincing.  

“I’ll leave them for Tilda.” 

“Tilda’s cutting back, too.” 

“Good, you two can split them.” 

They covered some small talk (she was an Orioles fan, God knows why, did her riff on Weecho’s Yankees). She liked that he was living in the loft, thought it sounded like he’d stepped in something good (he’d been staying with one or another of her Cuban relatives before that, had no brothers or sisters, so that made it easier). They didn’t get into normal family things because there weren’t normal family things to get into. She knew Weecho was making it okay on his own, but she was the mother and needed clarification on certain points.     

“What about work? You shooting anything pays decent?” 

Okay, here it comes. “Actually, I might be branching out.”