“You’re cold, ain’t you?” my mama says as I wrap my arms tighter around my stomach and shift my feet.
“I’m okay,” I say, looking down at my goosebumps as I move my arms down to my sides.
We were almost late this morning because I begged Mama to stop at Grandma’s house and get my pageant dress. I’ve never been in a pageant but the lady at the flea market said Little Miss South Carolina from three years ago had a dress just like it when I picked it out. It is baby pink with lace all over the neck and sleeves and the skirt poofs out with layers of more lace underneath. I got it almost two years ago when I was seven and it barely fits anymore but I wanted to wear my fanciest dress for the interview today. I thought it was in a box of old clothes at our apartment, but I forgot to look until this morning, so I begged Mama to make a pit stop.
Mama and I are in a big concrete building near the Capitol where I took a field trip last year. The building feels like a hospital, like where I got shots when I was little except there are no paintings of rainbows or toy blocks for the babies to play with. It is too bright and it’s cold inside even in April. I try to think about anything but being cold so Mama won’t tell me that I shoulda worn a jacket over my dress. I open up the shiny black purse that I got for Christmas and pull out my copy of the letter that I wrote for today. Mama says that I will read anything, even the back of the bleach cleaner in the bathroom, but I wanna read my note again to make sure I said everything right.
Letter to South Carolina Department of Probation, Parole and Pardon Services, May 1992
To who it might concern:
Hi my real name is Candace but my family calls me Candy. I am nine years old and I am writing to you about my Daddy. He has been in my life since I was three but he never gets to have breakfast with us or go to the park because he is in your jale. Everybody makes fun of me at school but on the weekends I get to see my daddy. He is my only friend in the world and the only daddy I have ever known. He has been in your jale for a long time but he is very sorry for the misunderstanding. Please let him come home to me and my brothers and he will never misunderstand again.
Sincerly,
Candy L
Last year in third grade, somebody stole Kenny Norsworthy’s lunch money from inside his desk. Mrs. Taylor had everybody put their heads down on their desks and she said, “Okay, the person who took Kenny’s lunch money can bring it up to my desk and we will go on with class. I’m sure this was just a misunderstanding, and it can be easily fixed.” I don’t remember if Kenny’s money was ever found because I was shaking and wondering if somehow I had accidentally taken it and forgot. I knew what bad things could happen because of misunderstandings and I never wanted one to happen to me.
Mama always tells me that when Daddy comes home everything will be different. When he comes home, I will have clothes from stores at the mall and he will come to pick me up from school. We will get a dog like the families I see on TV and we’ll probably even go to Disney World. We have been waiting for everything to change for six years. Now, we are waiting for the parole hearing to start, and mama is about to smoke again, jerking a cigarette out of the little purple velvet case I bought her last Mother’s Day.
Before she can light it, she does a double take at something down the hall. I see that it is a woman who has her arms folded like I do. At first, I think she’s probably cold too, but her hands are shaking and her eyes are big like mine when I’m watching a scary movie. My mom glares at her, then snaps at me, “Well, he’s not getting out today.”
“What do you mean? We haven’t had our interview yet,” I say, tugging again at the lace on the bottom of my dress.
“The victim is here,” she says, sounding the word out in the mean songlike way the popular girls at school sometimes do to me.
“What? What victim?” I look back down the hall at the lady, but she has turned away from us.
When we leave the parole office later that day, we are behind the van taking my daddy back to jail. He wipes his tears with his red and black handkerchief, waving at me until the van turns onto the highway. On the long car ride home, I look out the window and try to figure out who that lady was and why she had anything to do with my daddy.
“Mama…” I say, lifting my finger up to chew on the side of my nail again, “how can there be a victim if it was a misunderstanding?”
She lights another Marlboro Red and doesn’t answer me.
Originally from South Carolina, Candace Lamb is a writer and educator currently living in New Jersey. Candace has a bachelor’s degree from USC Upstate, a masters from the University of Louisville, and holds a Ph.D. from the University of Texas at Austin. She is currently at work on her first memoir.
