the temporary release

by Antonio Sodré

Life

Five children of her own and one adopted. A single mother. Grandchildren arriving in a relentless, overlapping blur, one after another. The family's sole breadwinner. She hawks lunchboxes on the street. She makes deliveries. She scrapes enough together for a food trailer. Then, the ex-husband, a hopeless addict, is hauled off to prison. The degrading strip searches before those grueling, costly visits. She shuttles care packages: shampoo, soap, chocolate, cigarettes, and, just once, a Bible.

She inherits his debts and the death threats from his dealers. The trailer, unlicensed, is impounded by the city. An eviction notice lands on the door. Then, a failing heart. Expensive meds. She needs an oxygen tank just to breathe.

The Crime

A man appears at her door with a proposition. He’ll cover the rent, help with the bills, the medication, and even throw in a monthly stipend. In exchange just hold onto some cash. That’s it. Just keep it safe.

Offended, she turns him down. But then comes the day she has nowhere to sleep, listening to the whimpers of her grandson nursing in her daughter’s lap on a cold sidewalk, she breaks. “Once I’m back on my feet, I’m out.”

Time passes, and the men’s trust grows. One day they bring a dresser with a false bottom. Now she’s storing cash and product. She stopped taking visitors, gripped by the fear of being found out. A new role is added: mule. Moving goods from Point A to Point B, following orders to the letter. She’s making good money now, trapped in a dead end of her own making.

A year goes by. At 6:17 a.m., the police breach the door. Guns drawn, shouting everywhere. She stands frozen, hands raised. The K-9 barks at the dresser. Sixty pounds of cocaine. Caught red-handed.

Punishment

The arraignment. Pre-trial detention ordered. Daughters and grandkids in a tailspin. Another year passes. A nine-year, one-month sentence for drug trafficking.

At first, a daughter visits, bringing a few toiletries. But the prison is a world away. Money is too tight. “Don’t come back, my dear. I don’t want you going into debt for me. I’ll manage.”

Now, she is truly alone.

The food is spoiled, sometimes rotten. Bruises bloom on her skin: souvenirs from guards and other inmates. She’s kept in the dark about her own case. “Did the public defender ever file that appeal?” No soap. The gnawing fear of her heart giving out. The meds are rationed. Now her kidneys are failing right along with her heart. She uses wads of toilet paper as pads.

She hears stories just like hers. A thousand stories, each one the same and yet entirely different. When the gates lock, the partners are the first to disappear. Those who can't stomach the solitude chase downers and sleep the days away.

She chooses work. She works herself to the bone. Three days of labor, one day off her sentence. She prays someone is keeping count.

Years of her life vanish. Good behavior. She’s transferred to a work-release program. A guard calls her name. She’s on the list for temporary release.

“Could you say that again?”

“It’s you. Go.”

They fasten the ankle monitor. She still doesn’t believe it.

Expectation

The inmates who can still afford to dream stare out at the street. “What’s the world like now?” On TV, a news anchor fans the flames of fear among law-abiding citizens.

7:42 a.m. Families huddle outside the gates. In front of the women’s facility, a dozen small clusters of relatives. A biting wind, 53°F. Daughters waiting for mothers. Mothers for daughters. Partners for partners. A few scattered men. Small children.

Meetings and Missed Connections

At eight, the gates groan open. Women in prison whites and beige, weighed down by ankle monitors, trickle out. A young woman with a baby in her arms rushes toward one of them. The inmate takes the boy. “Stay close, baby, so he doesn’t cry.”

For some, there is no one. Nowhere to go.

She is one of the ghosts. She paces the sidewalk, adrift. Ashamed of the prison clothes. No address for her daughters. No cash. She finally asks a stranger to use their phone. She racks her brain for her eldest daughter’s number. No answer. Despair claws at her as the minutes tick by.

She stops another passerby. “My family doesn’t know I’m out.”

A startled girl looks the frail woman up and down. “Give me the number. I’ll call.” Her son-in-law answers and orders a rideshare. Tears. Trembling hugs.

One week of a whole lifetime. That is all the time she has.

BIO: Antonio Sodré is a student of English Literature and Linguistics at the University of São Paulo, Brazil. He enjoys turning stories into short tales and has been published in several literary magazines, anthologies, and through literary contests, in English (The Argyle Review), Portuguese, and Spanish. Instagram: @acasodre