The Way Home
George Pelecanos
PART ONE
BAD CHRIS
ONE
No one could say why it was called Pine Ridge. Wasn’t any pines around that Chris could see. Just a group of one-story, L-shaped, red brick buildings set on a flat dirt-and-mud clearing, surrounded by a fence topped with razor wire. Beyond the fence, woods. Oak, maple, wild dogwood, and weed trees, but no pines. Somewhere back in those woods, the jail they had for girls.
The facility was situated on eight hundred acres out in Anne Arundel County, Maryland, twenty-five miles from Northwest D.C., where Chris had grown up. At night, lying in his cell, he could hear planes coming in low. So he knew that they were near the Baltimore airport, and close to a highway, too. Some days, if the wind was right, playing basketball on the outdoor court or walking to the school building from his unit, he’d make out the hiss and rumble of vehicles speeding by, straights going off to work or heading back home, moms in their minivans, kids driving to parties or hookups. Teenagers like him, only free.
Of course, he had been told exactly where he was. The director of the district’s Department of Youth Rehabilitation Services, the superintendent, the guards, his fellow inmates, his parents, and the lawyer his father had hired to represent him had explained it to him in detail. He’d even been shown a map. But it was more interesting for him to imagine that he was in some kind of mysterious location. They are sending me to a top secret place in the woods. A facility for boys they cannot control. A place that can’t hold me. I will now plan my daring escape, ha-ha.
“Chris?” said his mother.
“Huh?”
“Is something funny?”
“No.”
“You’re grinning.”
“Was I?”
“Chris, you seem to be treating all of this very lightly.”
“I don’t mean to, Ma. I was thinkin on something, was all it was.”
“You were thinking about something,” said his father.
Chris smiled, causing the muscles along his father’s jawline to tighten.
Chris Flynn was seated at a scarred wooden table in the Pine Ridge visiting room. Across the table were his parents, Thomas and Amanda Flynn. Nearby, several other boys, all wearing polo shirts and khakis, were being visited by their moms or grandmothers. A guard stood by the door. Outside the room, through a square of Plexiglas, Chris could see two other guards, talking to each other, laughing.
“How’s it going, honey?” said Amanda.
“It’s all right.”
“How’s school?”
Chris glanced around the room. “I go.”
“Look at your mother when she’s talking to you,” said Thomas Flynn.
Instead, Chris stared into his father’s watery eyes. He saw a husk of anger and hurt, and felt nothing.
“I’m asking you,” said Amanda, “are they treating you all right? Are people bullying you?”
“You don’t need to worry about that. I know how to jail.”
“You,” said Flynn, his voice not much louder than a contemptuous whisper.
“Do you have one of those level meetings coming up?” said Amanda.
“Not that I know.”
“They’re supposed to have them monthly. I’ll follow up with our attorney. He’s in contact with the superintendent.”
“Fine.”
“Let’s pray,” said Amanda.
She laced her fingers together, rested her hands on the table, and bowed her head. Chris and Thomas Flynn dutifully did the same. But they did not speak to God, and their thoughts were not spiritual or pure.
When Amanda was done, the three of them got up out of their seats. Amanda looked at the guard, a big man with kind eyes who surely would understand, and she embraced her son. As she held him, she slipped three folded twenty-dollar bills into the pocket of his trousers.
Amanda broke away from him, tears heavy in her eyes. “We’re doing everything we can.”
“I know it.”
“You’re in my prayers. I love you, Chris.”
“Love you, too, Mom.” He said this quietly, so the other boys would not hear him.
Neither Chris nor his father made a step toward each other. After a long, empty lock of their eyes, Chris gave Thomas Flynn a tough nod with his chin, turned, and left the room.
“Should we try and talk to the superintendent before we leave?” said Amanda.
“What for?” Flynn shook his head. “Let’s just go.”
Along with an escort guard, Thomas and Amanda Flynn walked out of the building toward the gatehouse, Thomas in front of Amanda, his heavy steps indenting the mud beneath his feet. Inmates, between classes and lunch, were moving from unit to unit, their arms behind their backs, one hand holding the wrist of the other, accompanied by a guard carrying a two-way radio. All of the boys were black. Flynn had seen one Hispanic kid, waxy eyed and wired on meds, on his last visit, so maybe there were a few Spanish here, too, but that was immaterial to him. What weighed on him was that Chris was the sole white inmate of the facility.
My son, here with all these…
Flynn stopped himself before ugly words spelled themselves out in his head.
He rang the bell on the door at the rear of the gatehouse, looking through bars and Plexiglas to get the attention of one of two uniformed women behind the counter. Like most of the female guard staff Flynn had seen here, these women were wide and generously weighted in the legs and hips. He and his wife were buzzed in, and they passed through the same security aisle, similar to those used in airports, they’d entered. Neither of the guards looked at the couple or spoke to them as Flynn and Amanda collected their keys and cells.
They exited the gatehouse and walked along the chain link and razor wire fence to Amanda’s SUV, parked in the staff and visitors’ lot. They did not talk. Amanda was thinking of going to early mass on Sunday and lighting a candle for Chris. Flynn, as he often did, was thinking of what had gone wrong.
By Flynn’s reckoning, he had begun to lose his son somewhere in Chris’s freshman year of high school. At the time, Chris was playing football and CYO basketball, getting decent grades, attending Sunday school and mass. He was also smoking marijuana, shoplifting, fighting other boys, and breaking into cars and lockers. This was all happening at the same time, when Chris was about fifteen. To Amanda, Flynn began to refer to his son as if he were two people: Good Chris and Bad Chris. By the time Chris was sixteen, only Bad Chris remained.
As a teenager and into his twenties, Flynn had blown his share of marijuana, so he detected Chris’s use right away. Flynn could see the high in Chris’s eyes, the way he would laugh inappropriately at violent images on the television screen, or his sudden interest in their Lab mix, Darby, playing tug-of-war or wrestling him to the ground, things he would never do while straight. Of course, there was the smell that always hung in Chris’s clothing and, when he had copped, that unmistakable skunky odor of fresh bud in his bedroom.
It didn’t bother Flynn horribly that his son smoked marijuana. In fact, he told Chris that he had no moral objection to it but felt that it was, basically, a waste of time. That for an already marginal student like Chris, it could
