He was right. She wasn’t surprised. She’d been waiting for this day for a long time, knowing on some level it would come eventually. And now that it was here, there was no more hiding. No more carrying the secret around like the unbearably heavy two-ton block of cement it had come to be. Slowly exhaling the long breath she’d been holding for fourteen years, she allowed her shoulders to relax. The tight muscles in her back and neck loosened. She gave her old friend a small smile, and he raised an eyebrow. No, she wasn’t surprised at all.
She was relieved.
“Shaw,” a sharp voice says, shaking Geo out of her reverie. The morning bell has rung. She looks up to see a corrections officer standing at the door of her cell, dressed in a dark-blue uniform, hair pulled back in a tight bun. The CO is short, but stocky and muscular, and Geo has no doubt she could wrestle someone twice her size to the ground. “Your assessment’s done. We’re transferring you. Let’s go.”
“Where are they putting me?”
“Maximum,” the guard says, and Geo’s heart sinks. “You’re in the big room, though, because your unit is under construction.”
The “big room” is temporary housing. She overheard an inmate complaining about how crowded it is to a guard the other day, and she balks. “The big room? Then can’t I just say here in receiving until—”
The CO’s bark of a laugh cuts her off. “You think this is a hotel? That if you don’t like your accommodations you can complain and get an upgrade? Move your ass, Shaw, before I make you move it.”
Geo grabs what few belongings she has. Right now they consist of a small plastic bin full of cheap toiletries and a sweatshirt with DOC printed on the back in large letters.
“You’re working in the hair salon, though,” the guard tells her. “You should be happy about that. Most newbies start in the kitchen, but they need someone who can cut and color hair. Did you work in the beauty industry on the outside?”
“Sort of,” Geo says.
“Hey.” The CO peers at her closely as they walk down the hallway. “I know you. Aren’t you the chick who sliced up her best friend? Like, a long time ago?”
Geo doesn’t answer.
“That’s some sick shit,” the CO says, and it’s hard to tell if she’s disgusted or impressed. Maybe both. “I’m surprised they’re letting you work with scissors.”
Me, too, Geo thinks. Me, too.
3
In the beginning, Geo never expected to get away with it. Angela Wong was too popular, too in love with her life, for anyone to believe she was missing of her own accord. But when the first few days passed with no knock on the door, she started to wonder if it was possible that nobody would find out what she had done. Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. And then the next thing Geo knew, years had passed, and it seemed like maybe the past would stay buried. A bad pun, but fitting nonetheless.
When it all finally caught up to her, Geo might not have been surprised, but she was wholly unprepared. Because really, what can prepare you for prison? Not the movies or television, which are designed to entertain and titillate. The reality of prison—the bleakness of it, the sameness of it, the unrelenting fear of getting attacked—is horrific. Her first two weeks in receiving, with her private cell that had its own sink and toilet, now seem like a cakewalk compared to the nightmare she’s currently facing, also known as “gen pop.”
Welcome to Hellwood.
Her counselor, P. Martin, was right in that the maximum-security units have more guards. But more guards don’t make it safer, especially when you’re sleeping in a crowded space where everyone’s in a shitty mood, especially the guards. Though Hazelwood is far from crowded, the two units undergoing construction have caused the other three to fill to capacity, and the overflow has been funneled into a large recreation room that’s been converted into communal housing. It’s the worst-case scenario as far as life in prison goes.
Gone are any expectations of privacy. Fights break out daily. Personal items are frequently stolen. The threat of violence hangs in the air like a storm cloud. Fifty grown women sleeping in such close proximity to each other isn’t normal. The big room contains twenty-five double bunks, lined up in rows of five. The constant noise makes the room feel smaller than it is, and the persistent aroma of sweat and farts makes it feel claustrophobic.
The corrections officer escorts Geo to a double bunk in the back corner, all the way across the room. The women eye her as she passes, and she works to keep a neutral expression on her face so no one will think she’s weak or hostile—in here, one is just as bad as the other. Geo is aware that she looks a little different than the rest of them. Her dark hair is expensively highlighted. She has perfect teeth. She doesn’t have face tattoos—or any tattoos, for that matter. She’s not part of a gang on the outside, nor was she involved in drugs. And unlike the majority of her fellow inmates, this is her first time incarcerated anywhere. She might be dressed in the exact same gray prison scrubs as everyone else, but she’s nothing like them, and it shows.
She’s a prison virgin. And they can smell it on her.
“This is you,” the guard says flatly, stopping at the double bunk.
There’s a sweatshirt on the top mattress, and two tattered magazines draped on the bottom bed. Geo isn’t sure which bunk is unoccupied. “Am I the top or bottom?” Geo asks.
The guard shrugs and turns to leave. “Don’t know. Ask your bunkmate.”
A large white woman of indiscernible age—somewhere between thirty and fifty is Geo’s best guess—waddles over. The inmate has to weigh well over three hundred pounds, and Geo catches a whiff of her sour body odor as she approaches. A messy bun of dry, bleached-blond hair is piled atop her head, showcasing three inches of dark-brown roots. She has no visible neck; what used to be there is now covered by a mass of double chin. Her eyebrows are painted on in matching thin black lines, and they furrow when she sees Geo. There are letters tattooed on each one of her sausage fingers. Her right hand spells out FUNS. Her left hand spells out OVER.
Fun’s over. Indeed.
The woman takes a seat on the bottom mattress. There’s a short metal footlocker in between each double bunk, and half a dozen photographs are taped to the door, showing the woman when she was slightly younger, and slightly thinner. In one of them, a lean black man stands next to her, and beside him is a young boy. The boy is skinny like his father, but his round face is a good blend of the two of them, with large brown eyes, soft mocha skin, and a grin full of oversized teeth. All three look happy in the photo.
Her bunkmate, intimidating as she might seem, is a mother. Okay, then. It can’t be so bad.
“I’m Bernadette,” the inmate says. Her voice is deep, with a slight accent. Something eastern European. Polish, perhaps. Or Czech. Sliding a hand under the mattress, she pulls out a bag of licorice whips. She doesn’t offer Geo any, but she does offer something resembling a smile. “Everyone calls me Bernie.”
“Georgina,” she says, returning the smile. “Everyone calls me Geo.”
“Welcome.” Bernie looks up at her, and Geo can see rings of dirt around her neck that were previously hidden in the folds of her skin. “Since we’re going to be bunkmates, you should know I have three rules.”
“Okay.” Geo’s still standing, holding her stuff, mainly because she’s not sure where she should put it. Since the woman is sitting on the bottom bunk, she’s assuming the top bunk is for her, but the woman’s sweatshirt is still on the mattress. She doesn’t dare move it.
“One. Don’t eat my food. Ever.” The large inmate takes another bite of her licorice whip, chewing with her mouth partially open. “You see any food lying on my bed, that’s not an invitation to have some. Don’t even ask me for any.”
“Got it.”
“Two. I snore. Loud. You complain to the guard about me, like the last girl did, and I’ll beat your ass, like I did her. My snoring bothers you, get earplugs from commissary.”
“No problem.” Geo can’t he
lp but think that it will be the woman’s smell that will bother her more than anything else.
“Three. I like the top bunk. You sleep on the bottom.”
“Really?” Geo is surprised. She thought bottom bunks were prized, and besides, she can’t imagine the woman and all her weight climbing up to the top bunk every time she needs to lie down.
“Yeah, the air feels fresher up there. These fuckers in here are always farting and burping, and by midnight it smells like a fucking toilet. I got a sensitive nose,” Bernie says, and her small, mean eyes challenge Geo to disagree with her. “You got a problem with the bottom bunk?”
“Not at all,” Geo says, wondering if anyone’s ever died from a top bunk collapsing. Getting her chest crushed in while she’s sleeping would be a hell of a way to go.
As if reading her mind, Bernie says, “Don’t worry. The bed won’t break. If that’s what you were thinking.”
Geo shakes her head quickly. “I wasn’t worried.”
“First time in Hellwood?” Her new bunkmate extracts another licorice whip and stuffs half of it into her mouth. Her teeth are red from the food coloring. It looks a little like blood.
“Yes,” Geo says, figuring that it’s better to be honest. “Any tips for me?”
The woman shrugs. “It’s not as bad as people think it is. You get used to it. This arrangement is a shit show”—she waved an enormous arm in the general direction of the room—“but it gets better once we get our cells back. I’ve stayed all over. This place isn’t the best, but it’s not the worst, either.”
Geo nods. She doesn’t ask what the woman did to get here. She heard it’s not polite. Neither would it be polite to ask the woman to move so she could sit down on the bed they already agreed was hers. Instead, she points to the photos on the locker door. “Your family?”
“Yup,” Bernie says, and finally grins. “I keep those pictures there to remind me of what I have to go home to.” She finally stands up, leaving behind an indent on the mattress in the shape of her ass and thighs.
The sheets already reek of the woman’s odor, but Geo forces herself to return the smile as she finally sets her things down on the bed. The metal frame groans as Bernie climbs slowly up to the top bunk and lies down. “You got a man waiting for you on the outside?”
“I’m not actually sure.” It’s the most truthful answer she can give. “Hey, are we allowed to use the phones?”
“Yup, anytime up till thirty minutes before lights-out,” Bernie says. “Down the hall, near the bathrooms. Check in with the guard before you try to leave, though. They have to buzz you out.”
The women whisper among themselves as Geo makes her way to the guard’s booth, but nobody speaks to her. She wonders if they’re curious because they’ve seen her on TV, or because she’s new. Probably both.
There’s a long line for the phones, and the CO on duty informs her that she can talk for only fifteen minutes at a time before she has to hang up and get back in line. Geo stands for what feels like an hour until a phone frees up, then takes a deep breath and dials Andrew’s cell number. The call rings five times and then goes to voicemail.
Thinking he might not want to pick up because he doesn’t recognize the number, she tries calling him at work. His assistant answers, which means she had to press 1 to accept the charges.
“Hi, Bonnie,” Geo says. “Is Andrew in?”
“Miss Shaw,” the assistant says, sounding flustered. Instantly, Geo knows that everything has changed. She’s always been friendly with Bonnie, and not once since she began dating Andrew has the woman ever addressed her by anything other than her first name. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Shipp doesn’t wish to speak to you.”
Geo closes her eyes. Miss Shaw. Mr. Shipp. She opens her eyes again. “He told you to say that?”
“Yes, ma’am, he did. I’m only authorized to speak to you this one time.”
Geo lets out a breath, slowly, trying to gather her thoughts. When she speaks again, her voice is tight. “What would he like me to do with the ring?” Her engagement ring is now in a box at her father’s house along with all her other personal belongings, as her house is currently for sale. “Does he want me to have it sent to him, or would he like to pick it up?”
“He says you should send it here to the office.” There’s a catch in the assistant’s voice, and Geo recognizes the conversation must be equally awkward for her.
“Bonnie—”
“Geo, I can’t speak to you.” Bonnie’s voice is hushed. “I’m sorry. I really am. The company’s going crazy. We’ve been getting so many calls; everyone wants to know if Andrew has anything to say about his former fiancée and a VP of the company being a convicted murderer and the girlfriend of a serial killer.”
“But I wasn’t convicted for—”
“It’s what everyone thinks that matters,” Bonnie said. Her voice is barely above a whisper. “And you know how it is here, Geo. Everybody’s concerned about the company’s reputation. We’ve had to issue a press statement.”
“What did it say?” When the woman doesn’t answer right away, Geo says, “Bonnie. Please. Tell me.”
“It says we do not condone or support you in any way, and that we’re sympathetic to the victim’s family. Andrew…” Bonnie pauses. “Andrew wrote it himself. I’m sorry.”
“He paid my legal fees.” Geo’s voice, even to her own ears, sounds hollow.
“I know. He took some heat for that from his father, but you were his fiancée at the time. Geo, I’m sorry, but I have to hang up now.” Bonnie sounds genuinely upset. “Please … please don’t call here again.”
The line goes dead.
So that’s it, then. No good-bye, no chance to explain or apologize. Andrew had ended it, taking the coward’s way out by allowing his assistant to deliver the blow. A two-year relationship over, just like that. She hangs the receiver in its cradle, moving aside for the next inmate. Not quick enough, though. Their shoulders graze.
The woman’s eyes narrow. She’s smaller than Geo, but there’s no fear in her face. “Watch it, bitch.”
“Sorry,” Geo replies, managing to sound somewhat sincere, even though it was the other inmate who bumped into her. The last thing she needs is a fight, but if the woman starts one, she’ll have no choice but to try and finish it. Otherwise she risks being seen as weak. She’s watched enough TV to know that if she gets her ass kicked and a CO later asks her who did it, she can never, ever say. Tattling to the guards about anything is a giant no-no. In prison, the only thing lower than a pedophile (which is pretty fucking low) is a rat. And if you’re a rat once, you’re a rat forever. The other inmates will never trust you, and they’ll make your life a living hell.
Bernie is in a good mood when Geo returns. She’s still stretched out on the top mattress, a mountain of woman. The package of licorice whips is empty, the plastic bag dangling off the edge of the bed. She rolls over on her side, and with Geo standing, they’re pretty much eye-to-eye.
“Good phone call?” Bernie asks.
“You asked me earlier if I had a man. I can now officially say I don’t.”
The woman reaches forward and moves a lock of hair out of Geo’s face. “That’s okay. In here, we don’t need them. There’s lots we can do without them.”
Geo moves away, uneasy. She resists the urge to outwardly shudder, but inside, she feels sick. The inmate in the next bunk glances over, and a look of what appears to be pity crosses her face before she looks away again. Or maybe Geo’s imagining it. Maybe she’s being paranoid.
Nothing bad happens that night, or the night after, even though Geo lies in bed for hours, fists and jaw clenched, anticipating the worst. Every night, before she falls asleep, she can’t believe this is her life. Every morning when she wakes up, she can’t believe this is her life. It’s finally hit her, that depression P. Martin warned her about. The overwhelming feeling that she doesn’t truly belong here—that somewhere along the way a giant mistake has been made—is impossible
to shake. And the cloak of denial isn’t protective at all. It doesn’t help. It suffocates her. It makes her vulnerable. It feels like someone took her life, shattered it into small pieces, and then put it back together, all messed up. The pieces are recognizable, but they’re all in the wrong places.
On her third day in the big room, she notices her bunkmate is in an extra-good mood. They go to dinner together that evening, sitting across from each other at a table with four other women. Bernie is chatty with Geo and the other inmates, talking up a storm about the good visit she had with her son earlier that morning. Every time she laughs, she places a hand on Geo’s arm. It seems harmless enough.
A woman with deep chocolate skin and a close-cropped Afro stares at Geo from a nearby table. There’s no hostility in her expression, just open curiosity. The other women at her table appear to defer to her, and occasionally they look over, too, murmuring to each other. Geo wonders what they see when they look at her. She knows she looks white, but she’s also aware that her ethnicity is evident if people are really looking for it. It’s in the caramel undertone to her skin, the slight almond shape of her eyes. Her hair, however, is straight. Her mother’s hair.
When Geo finishes eating, the black woman meets her at the tray return. The other women from her table stand behind her, a few feet away, not close enough to hear their conversation, but close enough to react if anything happens. Her security detail, clearly.
“Are you black?” the woman asks. There’s almost a nobility in the way she speaks. Her voice is rich, the pronunciation exact. Up close, her face is beautiful, unlined and smooth, with high cheekbones. Her eyes are almost black.
“One-eighth,” Geo says, feeling the need to be specific, though she doesn’t bother to explain the rest of it.
Jar of Hearts Page 3