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They said there were only two days you were actually there: the day you went in and the day you got out. Tim couldn't remember the first time he heard that particular phrase---maybe it was something Frank had said to one of the more deserving suspects, or maybe it wasn't; Frank didn't usually say things like that---but the first time he heard it and actually listened was when Danvers leaned over to him and said, very quietly but very clearly, "There are only two days, Bayliss. The day you go in and the day you come out, and you will make it out."
Killing Luke Ryland had taken care of the first, and not killing himself took care of the second.
The first thing he noticed was that it wasn't as bright as he thought it would be, when he finally did get shuffled out the gates for good. He expected that squinting moment he had seen so much on TV. Also, it wasn't cold; it was September.
The cars did look different, though: more rounded, shinier. Jim was there to pick him up in one. He looked older, and they shook hands and, without speaking, got into the car. Jim understood. Tim flipped the sunshade down to look at his own reflection in the tiny rectangular mirror there. He was older too.
Of course it had been years: longer than he had planned to live, but, when he decided to stick around, fewer years than had been handed down. Good behavior, they said, but it was hard not to imagine Danvers (it was his first instinct to envision Giardello, before he remembered) somewhere pulling strings. Or was Danvers retired now?
The news had come in trickles at first, in letters, but those letters had died down until they consisted only of Mary Pembleton's yearly Christmas card. Then the Christmas cards stopped and there was nothing but the Baltimore Sun, delivered when the guards felt like it. Tim rarely gave it more than a glance or two in the direction of the sports section, even when the Orioles were losing, which was, admittedly, most of the time. He did read about the serial killer of homeless men, though, and wondered whether they ever arrested anybody. There were new inmates all the time, but Tim could hardly walk up to them and ask, "Hey, were you the one that McNulty guy was tracking down?" It had taken years for people to forget that he had been a cop. He remembered those times, and didn't care to repeat it.
There was a new crop of homicide detectives. That was something he read between the lines and he didn't quite know what to think. They had a new office downtown, one that had a functioning air conditioner but lacked a view of the bay. Times change, Tim knew, but some things were harder to believe than others.
Like, for instance, that Uncle George had left the house to him. When Jim dropped him at the door and drove off with a promise of Sunday dinner, Tim stood on the porch for a good five minutes before, with a hand shaking a little more than he would have liked, he fitted the key into the lock and twisted. Inside was spotless. Someone had come in and cleaned and cleared all the old man's things out. The stove was the same, and the refrigerator, but the sagging couch and flickering television were gone and had been replaced with neat, inexpensive, functional items. Tim sat on the couch and turned on the television. PBS was showing a documentary on Mighty Mouse. Just for a second, it was almost too much. Then Tim got up, turned off the television, and went to explore the rest of his new house.
He had been living there for two months when she knocked on the door. Back when Tim had been a homicide detective, living by himself, he had heated up frozen dinners and eaten them in front of the TV. Now, with all the time in the world, he made dinner, set the table, and ate sitting in the kitchen. At the end, he washed the dishes. He was washing the dishes when the knock came and he almost dropped the plate he was rinsing. It was dark outside and he hadn't heard a car and all of a sudden he felt a fluttering in his stomach---nervousness?---that he hadn't felt for years; he had thought he was unshakable now, and noticing that he wasn't came as a surprise.
He put down the plate and walked to the door, flicking on the switch that controlled the porch light as he went. Whoever was there, he would meet them well illuminated.
It wasn't a con artist, or even a boy scout on late-night rounds. Instead, there was a young black woman standing on the porch. She took a startled step back when he opened the door.
"Hello?" It came out raspy. He cleared his throat, trying to remember how many days it had been since he'd spoken. "Yes? Can I help you?"
"Hello," she said. She stuck her hand out. "I'm Olivia Gordon."
Tim shook her hand, and stood aside for her to come in. She did so, stepping over the uneven lip of the top stair as if she had lived in the house all her life. Which, of course, was impossible. She could hardly be more than twenty-five.
He gestured her into a chair, but she stood with her back to the closed door and peered up at him almost experimentally. "You would have no reason to recognize me," she said.
Something at the corner of his mind began to tickle. "Do I know you?" asked Tim. "I doubt that we," he stopped, cleared his throat. "I've been away a long time."
"I know," said Olivia Gordon. "That's why I came. My husband wasn't in love with the idea but," she smiled, "just because I love him doesn't mean I have to listen to everything he says. That wouldn't make any sense." She smiled sideways and shook her head, as if the very idea was ridiculous.
Tim frowned. He leaned forward. He had seen that headshake before. "Are you, I mean, you said your last name was Gordon?"
She grinned. "Yes, but my maiden name is Pembleton."
Tim sat down. She came and stood in front of him. He took her hand, almost without realizing. "You're Frank's daughter?"
"Well done, detective," Olivia said.
Detective. Now that was something. "I do know you," said Tim, releasing her hand. Olivia sat next to him on the sofa. "I met you when you were just born. I gave you a bear, and that Goodnight Moon book, and a ballerina, I think." He shook his head, eyes wide, starting to smile. "I can't believe it."
"I still have the bear," said Olivia. "I'm saving it to look over my own kids, when they come along." She folded her hands in her lap. "Detective Bayliss…"
"Tim," said Tim.
"Tim, my father doesn't know I'm here. He's been in an independent living place ever since my mother died."
"Mary died?" Tim shot forward in his seat. "She's dead?"
"Two years now," said Olivia. "Breast cancer. It wasn't as bad as it could have been. But since Dad's second stroke he hasn't been the best at watching over himself. As if he ever was. But you know that."
Tim was too busy taking her words in to respond. Mary dead, Frank with a second stroke, assisted living… "I am so, so sorry."
Olivia smiled. "Thank you."
"Your mother was a wonderful person. She sent me Christmas cards." Tim could feel something starting at the back of his eyes. She called me detective. He shook his head. "But he's all right? Frank's all right?"
"Oh yes," said Olivia. "That's why I'm here. I think you should go visit him."
It wasn't as if the idea hadn't crossed his mind before. Since getting out, the only of his old friends he'd seen besides Jim had been Lewis, of all people. Lewis had come bearing casserole like a southern lady. That had been a surprise, never mind that he had had to drive forty-five minutes to get there. Apparently, he was married again. She made the casserole, not him. She must be nice, Tim thought, to have made the casserole for a man she's never met before in her life. Lewis (who now had a little less hair and a little more padding at the stomach) only stayed for a few minutes. They talked about his cousin who worked for the Sun, and about Kellerman, who Lewis had apparently gone into business with before retirement, and then he had somewhere in the neighborhood to be, he said. He was lying---outside of the box, Tim remembered, Lewis was always a lousy liar---but it had been good to see him, and the casserole was delicious.
But visiting Frank, that was something nearly unthinkable Not only because of what had happened before between them, but because Tim had been in prison and Frank knew what prisons were like---never from personal experience, of course not, but Tim wondered whether he could ever look at someone who had once been inside as an equal. Before he could even begin to formulate the words, though, Olivia spoke, holding her hands up, forestalling all objections.
"Please," she said. "If not for you, for him. Mom told me once that he'd only lost one friend in his life. She didn't say who, but I think it was you."
Tim shook his head. "It can't have been me."
Olivia sighed. "Still. Please?"
He had wanted to be her Uncle Timmy. "Fine," he said softly.
Olivia beamed. "I'll pick you up tomorrow."
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The music on the radio had less percussion---that was the first thing Tim noticed when he got into Olivia's Toyota. The seats were heated, too, which was interesting.
"I told him you were coming," said Olivia.
That was a surprise. Tim glanced her way, but she was watching the road placidly, with an expression that made it seem as if she was thinking of something else entirely. Tim chuckled.
That got her attention. "What?"
He shook his head, smiling. "You drive like your dad."
They pulled up outside Roland Park Place and Olivia stopped the car. She reached into the back seat and pulled out a Tupperware container that contained, as far as Tim could see, spaghetti covered in sauce. Olivia caught him looking. "My mom's recipe," she said. "It's the only thing I really learned to cook."
"Your husband does the cooking?" asked Tim, getting out of the car. (Since when did getting out of a car require so much extra effort?)
"He does," said Olivia, getting up in one fluid motion, balancing the Tupperware in one hand and shutting the door behind her with the other. "He was at culinary school in DC when we met. I went to Georgetown."
"Ah, the Jesuits," said Tim.
"Yes," said Olivia. "The Jesuits."
They went inside and Olivia waved hello to the woman behind the front desk before steering Tim off into a hallway on the left. They just missed the elevator.
"You know," said Tim, "I dated a restaurateur for a while. Does your husband have a restaurant?"
"His name's Peter," said Olivia. "And, no, he doesn't. He's thinking about opening one, though, maybe in Fells Point if he's lucky. There's a lot of turnover there and if he hits it running," she shrugged, "maybe something might happen."
"I used to own a bar," said Tim.
"I know," said Olivia.
Tim nodded. It felt so good to be talking again---talking about himself and asking questions about her---that he forgot Olivia might know some of it already. "Did he talk much? Frank?" The elevator door opened with a binging sound, and they got in. "About me?"
"No," said Olivia. "Not a lot. A little."
"Okay," said Tim.
Olivia pushed the third floor button and they started to move. The elevator moved slowly, maybe so as to avoid rattling old bones. It reminded him of the elevator at the Fells Point station: how slowly it moved, even when it wasn't crammed with higher-ups riding to a higher floor. The day after Lewis had visited, Tim had gotten a call from someone in homicide. The detective was asking about an old case file, and he spoke really quietly, which made Tim think that the shift commander was not one hundred percent behind this call. It had been a dumb case, a stone whodunit where no one saw anything and nothing set the murder apart from all the others. Shotgun shells everywhere, but nothing special about them. Some guy on a corner too ornery to speak, but clearly terrified. Maybe the guy from homicide called because it was one of my last cases, Tim thought, and maybe I left something off the report. Maybe it was just curiosity.
The elevator door opened and Olivia stepped out. Tim followed her, still partly lost in thought and surprised that he was not more nervous at the prospect of seeing Frank again. The last time he had seen him was not all too clear in Tim's mind, not as clear as their rooftop conversation, that's for sure. Frank had taken him inside, had taken a statement, had softly, softly, called Gharty in for a confession. All of that was clear. What was less clear was what had happened afterwards: the long walk down to booking, the overnight in the cell, Danvers coming in with his face incredibly pale saying, "Don't say anything else." Where was Frank in all that? Tim wasn't entirely sure.
Olivia stopped outside room 302. She knocked on the door. "Yes?" called a voice from inside.
Olivia stepped back. "You can go in alone," she said. "I'll be down at reception grading papers."
"Oh, you don't want to---"
"I see him all the time," said Olivia. She handed him the Tupperware. "Go ahead." Then she turned and walked back toward the elevators.
The room was neat and very, very warm. What else did Tim expect? There were three windows with the blinds only partially drawn letting in afternoon sunlight. Frank was sitting in a chair beside a short bookcase. There was a television opposite, switched off, and a short, squat sofa. There was also a door leading into another room---presumably his bedroom and bathroom. Tim took all this in before realizing he was doing it. He was counting the windows, he was counting the doors and the exits, and reminding himself how high up they were. He caught himself doing it, and he smiled.
"I see that," said Frank. "You were just doing the old police checklist." His speech, if it was hesitant at all, barely wavered. He didn't get up from the chair, but Tim got the impression that this was not because of inability; he didn't want to appear too moved.
"Old habits die hard," said Tim.
"Now that's a cliché. You're talking in clichés," said Frank. He savored the word "cliché," drawing it out as long as he possibly could.
"Maybe I am, Frank," said Tim. He came fully into the room and shut the door.
"Have a seat," said Frank.
"I have some, uh, food," said Tim, holding out the container with the spaghetti in it. "Mary sent it." It just slipped out and now there it was, without hope of recall. Tim felt his face go numb. "I mean Olivia. Olivia mentioned that it was Mary's recipe and," he stopped. He put the spaghetti down on the coffee table. "I'm so sorry, Frank."
"Don't, don't worry about it," said Frank, swatting the words away with one hand.
"She was a wonderful woman, Frank," said Tim.
"Sit down and stop saying my name every five seconds," said Frank.
Tim sat---more like folded himself into the sofa---and stared at Frank. "I can't believe I'm sitting here," he said. "I can't believe you invited me over."
"I didn't invite you over. Olivia invited you over." Frank shifted in his seat. He glanced at the window. "It has all the signs of a play date."
"Still," said Tim. "It's good to see you," he hesitated, "partner."
"I lose words sometimes," said Frank. "Because of the, the stroke. Olivia told you?" Tim nodded. "I can't figure out what to say. Sometimes. So I either stand there gaping like a, a lake trout on a hook, or I say something else instead." He looked at Tim. "That word. Partner. Say something else instead."
Tim had been inside long enough to realize how much words mattered, to some people. He hadn't learned that much in his real life, even when Frank and everyone else in the squad room were trying to pin him down and classify him and put a name to who he was. Even when he kneed that skinhead in the groin for calling Frank that unforgivable word, Tim wasn't thinking about how words worked, just what they made you do.
Inside, words kept inmates moving in the right orbits. Who did what and to whom or for whom depended on what other people called each person. If you were, for example, an ex-cop among the murderers, you prayed every morning that no one would pick this day to call you a cop in front of the entire cafeteria. Even though that's what you were, it didn't mean anything until someone said it.
"Sure, Frank," said Tim, marveling, as he said it, at the fact that no matter the number of intervening years and what had happened while they had been apart, they reverted.
Frank sighed.
"I guess you think," Tim began, hesitantly, "I guess you're right. We're not really partners, actually, now."
"Nope," said Frank.
"I messed that up, huh?"
"No," said Frank forcefully. He ran a hand over the top of his head. "Stop being so full of your damn self. I quit before you did."
"I didn't quit."
"Hmm," said Frank. He was actually giving Tim the once-over. Tim would have laughed if the room hadn't been so warm. "Didn't kill yourself either, by the looks of things."
"No," said Tim, swallowing. Maybe all these years Frank had assumed he was dead. The thought was chilling. But, then Olivia had known when he was released---maybe Frank had been keeping track of him after all. "There was this guy---"
"I don't want to know."
"---who prayed the rosary every night. Relax, Frank," said Tim.
"Go on," Frank said, maybe even looking a little sheepish.
"I started saying it with him, just to have something to do, mostly," said Tim.
"Oh, so you had a conversion experience?" Frank did not sound fully skeptical. "What happened to Buddhism?"
"No, nothing like that," said Tim. "It was more like something to do in the evenings, and it made me think of you."
"Come on."
"Really," said Tim. "I wasn't planning on it, but that's what happened. So here I am."
"Here you are," said Frank.
"You've raised a beautiful daughter, Frank," said Tim.
"Well you can't have her. She's married."
"I know that," said Tim. "And besides, I know when a man's too old, and I'm too old."
"It's strange," said Frank.
"What?"
"I said it's strange. For some reason I thought you'd be frozen in time."
Tim could practically see Frank thinking about the prison: the corridors, the cells, the bunks, the showers, the mess, the chapel, the yard, and what else? What happened in all those rooms, and what didn't happen. "You age in prison, Frank," said Tim. "That's one thing they let you do."
Frank flinched a little. "So, what? You took up underwater basket weaving?"
"Are you asking me how I filled my time?"
"If that's what you're hearing," said Frank. Yes, he was asking.
"I did a lot of thinking. A lot of silent meditation."
"For twenty years?" Frank was as taciturn as they came, but this was beyond him.
"There are really only two days: the day you go in---"
"---and the day you come out," Frank finished. "Or so they say." He cleared his throat, a low-down humming that sounded more musical than guttural. "I was watching this program on the History, the History Channel. About World War Two. They said men would come home to their wives and the wives would want to, to know about what happened when they were over there. And those men couldn't say, because there were no words with which to say what, what it was their wives wanted to hear."
Tim nodded. "My great aunt told me that once."
"I'm not talking about your great aunt," said Frank. "I'm talking about you not spilling your guts out like you used to."
"People change," said Tim.
"People, yes, people change, but you do not."
Tim sat there, stunned, for a second. Never before had he heard Frank Pembleton say something so inaccurate.
"It wouldn't take much," said Frank, "to send you over the deep end. It didn't. So how did you, did you---" he trailed off. He did not, after all, gape like a fish, but he did look incredibly frustrated.
"How did I survive?" Tim finished for him.
"Yes," said Frank. "Why are you here?"
Tim shrugged. "Some things can't be explained. You taught me that."
"I was lying," said Frank. "I take it back."
Tim sighed. He leaned back further into the sofa. "One day I stopped counting the hours I had left, and the next thing I knew I had been alive more hours that I had planned."
"Math," said Frank.
"Not doing my arithmetic saved me," said Tim, grinning faintly. "Put that on a bumper sticker."
There was a gentle knock at the door, and Olivia stuck her head in. "Sorry to interrupt," she said. "Peter called. He needs the car."
"Oh," said Tim, attempting to stand and instead succeeding in rocking back and forward in the sofa.
"Come in," said Frank. "That fool husband of yours can wait ten more minutes."
"I spent four whole hours with you on Sunday, Daddy," said Olivia. "I think I have better ways to use ten minutes."
"Well then help, help Bayliss up," said Frank. "He looks like he's building a nest."
Tim tried to get himself to his feet without Olivia's help, but the couch really was like velvet quicksand. She tugged his arms efficiently---she was clearly used to this---and got him upright in no time.
"Next time," said Frank, "I'll make sure there's somewhere else for you to sit, old man."
Next time. "That would be good," said Tim.
"We might have a wicker chair in the basement," said Olivia. "I can bring it over when I come in two days." She turned to Tim. "And I'll give you Dad's number, so you can set up your next play date."
Frank raised his eyebrows and gestured widely, locking eyes with Tim, vindicated.
"Perfect," said Tim, grinning at Frank. "Do they allow beer in here? I could bring some."
"Bring whatever you want," said Frank.
"Surprisingly, not many of the staff find it within themselves to tell Dad what to do," said Olivia dryly. She made for the door.
Tim picked up one of Frank's hands (at first he could feel resistance, but then it faded away, faster than it once would have) and squeezed it. "I'll be back," he said.
Frank nodded, and turned his head away, looking out the window.
Riding down in the elevator with Olivia, Tim checked his watch twice, and thought he could feel the minutes ticking by again. That time would and did pass he never doubted, but for the first time in a long time he was counting down to something: that day, hopefully not too far removed but not so soon that it would feel untrue, when Frank would say something to him---ridicule, a lesson, it didn't matter---and follow it up with that old, old word.
"Do you mind if I drop you off at your house and run?" Olivia asked. "My husband was called in for a meeting with some developers."
"Not at all," said Tim.
"We share the car," said Olivia.
"A partnership," said Tim.
"Yes." Olivia smiled. "Well, you would know, Detective Bayliss."
He was home in time for dinner.