The Free (P.S.) by Willy Vlautin Page B

“He’ll trim them and move them around. He’ll water them on the days he’s here, and he’ll tell you what to do on the days he ain’t. The lights are on timers and the heaters all have thermostats so you won’t have to worry about them.”
    “What’s in the tub?” asked Freddie.
    “Mystery magic water,” Lowell said, grinning. “Ernie will mix it up when we run low. I swear by my nephew, so don’t worry.” He looked over and pointed his finger to him. “Just don’t bring any of your friends around.”
    “I wouldn’t,” Ernie said.
    “I’m serious.”
    “I told you I won’t.”
    “What days do you think you’ll come, Ernie?” asked Freddie.
    “I don’t have classes on Thursday. I’ll come then for sure and then probably on Saturday. Uncle Lowell said not to bother you on Sunday ’cause it’s your day off.”
    “We should have a harvest next couple weeks. You’ll see some money off that. Ernie will be the guy to pay you. You alright, Freddie? You look pretty rough, man. You losing weight?”
    “I am a little bit.”
    “And you’re going gray.”
    “Yeah.”
    “I guess we all go gray if we get lucky.”
    “I have to admit I’m a little nervous, Lowell. I’ve never done anything illegal, not really.”
    “If you weren’t nervous you’d be a dumb shit, and you ain’t a dumb shit, Freddie. You’re just broke. Look, when I get out, the first thing I’m going to do is get my ass over here and move these plants. I promise you that. Like I said, the risk ain’t much, Freddie, but there’s always a chance of something going wrong.”
    “I know,” he said.
    “We’re going to finish the lights and load in the rest of the stuff and then get some Mexican food. You should come.”
    “I’d like to but I have to take a nap and then go to work.”
    “Hanging out with the retards, huh?” Lowell asked.
    Freddie nodded and walked back up the stairs. He put more wood on the fire and sat down, worried. He stared at the flames and looked at the fabric of the couch. He remembered when his parents bought it from a furniture store brand-new. His mother put a plastic slip over it and then a blanket. When she died, the first thing his father did was take all the plastic off the furniture and wear his shoes in the house.
    The old couch had weathered he and his parents, a dog and two cats, and finally his youngest daughter, Ginnie. He thought of all the times she’d lain on the couch recovering from surgeries. How he’d light a fire and set the TV where she could see it. It would be weeks at a time she’d be there, nursed night and day by his wife and him.
    “Now I’m gonna end up in prison,” he said to himself, and he said it over and over until he almost believed it as truth. He set the alarm on his phone and lay down on the couch and put the sleeping bag over him. He woke two hours later to hear Lowell and Ernie’s voices come up from the basement. He changed out of his paint store clothes and left for his shift at the group home.
     
    The next evening when he got home, a beat-up white Volkswagen Bug was parked in the drive outside of his house. Inside he could hear Lowell’s voice drifting up from the basement vent. Again the house was warm. There was a fire in the fireplace and on the kitchen table were containers of Chinese food. In the basement eighty-five marijuana plants sat on different tables. The large plants were three feet tall and set in rows; the smaller ones were less than a foot and put in a separate makeshift room made out of black plastic and two-by-fours. There were little blue flags sticking out of some plants, yellow flags out of others, and orange out of others. The humidifier, two space heaters, and four fans were all running. Ernie stood trimming the plants with a small pair of scissors while Lowell wrote out instructions in a binder.
    “Off work, huh, Freddie?” Lowell said when he saw him.
    Freddie nodded.
    “How was the Bible eater today?”
    “He put in his