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27<br />
He’s shaved, <strong>the</strong> wild whiskers now a smooth, rounded ch<strong>in</strong>. He is wear<strong>in</strong>g a brown-and-tan plaid<br />
flannel shirt tucked <strong>in</strong>to faded blue jeans, and a brown baseball cap with no <strong>in</strong>signia. He still has <strong>the</strong> silverframed<br />
bifocals given to him <strong>in</strong> jail. On his feet are old lea<strong>the</strong>r work boots.<br />
I hold out <strong>the</strong> lilac branch, droop<strong>in</strong>g with flowers, and Knight looks at it crossly. It’s like offer<strong>in</strong>g a glass<br />
of water to a fish. <strong>The</strong>re are lilacs, I now notice, bloom<strong>in</strong>g p<strong>in</strong>k, purple, and white everywhere on <strong>the</strong><br />
Knight property. I lower <strong>the</strong> branch and lift my o<strong>the</strong>r hand, like a waiter, pie box on my palm. “I brought<br />
someth<strong>in</strong>g for your mo<strong>the</strong>r,” I say.<br />
Knight’s eyes slide over to <strong>the</strong> box. “No,” he says firmly. I retreat to my car, open <strong>the</strong> driver’s-side door,<br />
set down <strong>the</strong> lilacs and <strong>the</strong> pie, and shut <strong>the</strong> door.<br />
We stand <strong>the</strong>re, unnaturally far apart. “Can I shake your hand?” I ask. We’d never had <strong>the</strong> chance; a wall<br />
had always separated us.<br />
“I’d ra<strong>the</strong>r not,” Knight answers, so we don’t.<br />
Knight <strong>in</strong>dicates, twist<strong>in</strong>g his head, for me to follow him. We walk beh<strong>in</strong>d <strong>the</strong> garage with <strong>the</strong> wea<strong>the</strong>r<br />
vane on top, out of sight of <strong>the</strong> road, <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> perfumy breeze of a lilac tree, branches graz<strong>in</strong>g our heads. <strong>The</strong><br />
grass is vivid green after a week of ra<strong>in</strong>. Apple trees bloom with white flowers, <strong>the</strong> forerunners to fruit.<br />
Nearby is <strong>the</strong> wea<strong>the</strong>red wooden shed, sagg<strong>in</strong>g, where Knight does his salvage work.<br />
<strong>The</strong>re are swarms of no-see-ums, fly<strong>in</strong>g gra<strong>in</strong>s of pepper, and I cont<strong>in</strong>ually brush <strong>the</strong>m away but don’t<br />
grab or slap. Even dur<strong>in</strong>g our jail visits I’d tried to keep my gestures <strong>in</strong> check around Knight, to preserve<br />
his calm. His movements were always so clean and careful. Knight seems not at all disturbed by <strong>the</strong> <strong>in</strong>sects.<br />
Everyone I’d spoken with <strong>in</strong> his circle, without exception, had exclaimed how ably he was adjust<strong>in</strong>g. He<br />
appears healthy and his sk<strong>in</strong> has nice color. He’s still th<strong>in</strong>—<strong>the</strong> end of his belt dangles—but not emaciated<br />
like he once was. <strong>The</strong> lack of a beard skews him younger. He’s been to a dentist; one tooth has been<br />
removed, I see, and <strong>the</strong> rest are sh<strong>in</strong>y and clean. But one of <strong>the</strong> first th<strong>in</strong>gs he says is that <strong>the</strong> optimistic face<br />
he’s displayed <strong>in</strong> public is false, ano<strong>the</strong>r mask. In truth, he’s hurt<strong>in</strong>g.<br />
“I’m not do<strong>in</strong>g very well,” he admits, gaz<strong>in</strong>g over my shoulder <strong>in</strong> his usual manner. Nobody understands<br />
him, he tells me. People constantly take offense at what he says. “<strong>The</strong>y misconstrue me as arrogant. I feel<br />
like I’m <strong>in</strong> high school all over aga<strong>in</strong>.” He sacrificed everyth<strong>in</strong>g else <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> world for complete autonomy,<br />
and now he’s nearly fifty years old and not allowed to make simple decisions for himself.<br />
<strong>The</strong> judge, his counselors, and his <strong>the</strong>rapist, says Knight, speak to him as though he’s a child. Every time<br />
he admitted he was struggl<strong>in</strong>g, <strong>the</strong>y fed him platitudes. Knight rattles <strong>the</strong>m off: “Oh, it’ll get better. Look on