Attic

by Katherine Dunn

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  Each cell has a little toilet in the back wall and there’s a towel jerry-rigged in front of each one but I don’t like to go there when there’s anybody else in the cell. There’s a toilet in a booth in the bull pen next to the shower but people can tell you’re going in there.

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  She would come in and pull the covers far down in one motion and grab both my hands to her nose with her mouth thin sniffing to see if I had been touching myself there. The smell isn’t bad but tart and brittle not like the pee smell of pants and the wet is wetter than water—why do they always think you put things into you bottles and candles and doorknobs they make jokes about thinking it’s instead of them and don’t understand it’s just the touching gentle and fast and the coming is different almost not there but all I can think about is them touching and them pulling it and the moving and their moaning in the dark and even though it’s not the same I think of nothing afterward but float and so awake before and so wild inside and afterward sleep is so easy lying still tired in all my parts like after he has come in me—how even when he makes me come—wild till I cry and then come laughing I don’t feel that used up—that tired until I feel his come hot into me and stay and I tilt up to keep it and don’t want to go to the bathroom or stand up but just lie there still and full of him and warm in myself and he warm and tired in me and sleep—and sad in the morning to feel it coming down and have to go and wash it away.

  But here no one looks at anyone under covers—here when the lights are out no one knows or wants to know and I lift the blanket in a little tent over the hand so no motion would show even if someone looked and no one talks about it except to be mean if you really hate them because it helps and makes you calm and you can sleep.

  I am lying on a mattress on top of the tower—it is pale and tall and the steps circle it going up like Babel in the pictures—each step carved into the face of the tower—and the tower narrowing to a point with only room for a mattress and me on the mattress and on each step a man stands faceless—formless—only the pricks distinct—standing red over purple balls—they are all waiting in line to get to me—on the thousand steps and the line ends here—and I lie still and do not move—my legs spread—my ass on a pillow—my head turned to see the line and not the face of the one on me now—I feel them—the thump as they fall on their knees on the mattress—sometimes they walk up between my legs on their knees—sometimes they fall on me with their legs straddling mine—forcing mine together once the prick is in—sometimes they kneel and lift me onto them—I always limp—unmoving—not pretending anything—they come in and drive deep and almost out and then all the way in again—their balls slapping against my ass and the crotch below the hole and sliding almost to the other hole as they come in—there is no pause between them—they finish and disappear—maybe there is a stairway down—maybe they fall off the edge—their chests do not press on mine—they hold themselves up by their arms—only our bellies and groins and thighs touching—the moving in and out is always slow and steady—I always feel it—I am never too dry or too wet—they all come in me but I am never full of it—they are all enormous—and they continue and will continue as long as I want them.

  I can think like that at night when there is time and no one but Blendina—in the day I try not to—I turn away when they touch or kiss trying not to remember—only a moment—a particular lunge—the sound of them groaning over me—the sensation at first when they are very large—it all makes me sick to remember in the daylight—shuddering hungry all through me and I lean my face against the cool steel and close my eyes until it goes away.

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  Yesterday I wanted to leave. That was the first time. The food’s good. It’s warm. Outside I could only shiver and scrounge. It must have been the truck. I was looking out the window. I stand on the crossbars to see down because the window is across the catwalk between the bars and the wall. I could see the street, not clearly without but lots of traffic lights and the busyness on the sidewalks that means people. It was all gray. The sky the buildings, inside, outside all the pink and green in here all the colors out there all gray and then this truck—bright yellow like the buckets of daffodils the bums sell in the gray spring in Portland. Then the light changed and it went around the corner. I guess I wanted to see it again. I went to the door of the matron’s room. The lever wouldn’t open it. I knocked on the steel. She came and looked at me through the little window. The glass has crinkled steel wire running through it in a checkerboard. It was Glad-Ass. Even her dark face looked gray, neutral. I’d like to leave now. I want to go out. She laughed, her teeth showing and the dark gums, a ropy sound coming through the glass. The girls in the bull pen looked at me and nudged each other. Please, I’d like to go now. Glad-Ass laughed again and waved. I saw her pink palm moving across the glass as she turned away. I tried the door handle but it didn’t turn. The door was made of pink steel.

  There’s a church on the street where my parents live. I used to go there in cold weather when I was staying away from home. One wall was all grained white glass, translucent and cold. The panes were held by black wooden frames and the light fell through onto the floor in shadows like bars make. I used to wonder if those bars were meant to keep sin out or sinners in. At least the bars that cast their shadows across my bunk in 4 cell are totally unambiguous.

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  She is shaking—red—her gray hands are white around the pointer and she slaps it on the desk like a golf club—she says Stomach—very clear and loud—Stomach—Navel—Stomach—Navel—and I standing by the seat whisper Belly Button—Belly—where the Injun shot me—it pops out with the knot at the end like a sock half rolled into itself—it pops out when I put my finger into it and pull and it sticks out from my belly—the short pale tube stiff with the knot at the end—if you’ll stop yelling I’ll show you how my belly button pops out—I sit on the pot with a bobby pin probing in my belly button and smelling at the soft white wet that comes out and then pop it out—pulling out on its sides till it pulls inside out and stands straight and hard—I thought boys had belly buttons that popped out and girls had just holes into themselves and the boy put his into her belly button—when she found the bobby pin on the washbasin she came looking for me with the plunger saying I had put it in the other place—Belly—don’t you ever let me hear you use that word while you’re in this school—it’s stomach—nice people don’t use that Other word.

  Glad-Ass is getting ready to roll the gates. She hauls back on the long lever in the matron’s room and all the gates rumble open simultaneously. The roar and clang wakes everybody for breakfast. Kathy is already in the bull pen. They say she does hard time. They say she does her time on the streets. She climbs the bull pen bars every morning to look down into the streets.

  We are going down for breakfast. We all line up in front of the door and Glad-Ass comes to open it. We march out past the matron’s desk which is always covered with pale intriguing folders with one of our names on each one. When Mrs. Eliot is on duty there is a flower in a small vase. When there is a flower the line swoops toward it, each head bobbing at the flower and then rising to go on. The girls from B tank are waiting for us in the elevator. It is as large as my mother’s bedroom and moves slowly. None of us know which floor the kitchen is on but we all know that it is down from the thirteenth floor.

  The kitchen is not like the huge dining halls you see in prison movies. It’s more like the cafeteria of a small poor high school. It’s no larger than a large living room and there is no wall between the cooking and eating areas. There is a long counter with hot food trays on it. We pick up plates and spoons and file past the counter. The male trusties who work in the kitchen stand behind the counter and put food on our plates as we pass. They look at us but Kathy says they’re dosed with saltpeter every day and never know whether it’s in the coffee or the stew. None of them are fat and we look at them. The dykes joke with them like men joking together in front of their women.
/>   There are four long tables. Two for B tank and two for C tank. We sit six on each side of the table eating our mush or pancakes with the spoons. We had forks until Jean tried to kill one of the girls from B tank. There is little talk at the table though it is not forbidden. We eat mechanically, not looking at each other out of consideration. If we want seconds we must not get up but we can call one of the men over and ask him for it. Many of the girls call men over. Rose never needs to call anyone. Two of the men watch her all the time and bring her everything before she runs out.

  The matrons sit at the table with the deputies who guard the men. They talk quietly watching us. One of the deputies comes over frequently to talk to Rose. He whispers and she laughs throwing back her head and showing her fine teeth. She says she screws that deputy on the streets and he thinks the kid she is carrying is his. He gives her cigarettes. He is nearly bald and as dark as Glad-Ass. Even with her belly Rose is very beautiful.

  Goldie wipes funny. She spreads her legs and puts her right hand down between far back with the tissue and pulls forward so if it’s smeary it all gets wiped forward into her cunt hair and cunt. I never thought of other people wiping different. I always reach around my right side with my right hand and down between till I can feel through the tissue it’s just below the hole and then wipe up to where the crack widens and then look at the tissue and fold it over and do it again. It’s neater and if it’s a shallow pot you might dip your hand or the tissue into the water going in from the front. From the back you have to be careful not to hit your knuckles on the seat but you learn to sit farther forward—probably all men reach around the back because of the balls in the way—men don’t wipe when they pee—when I pee I wipe the way Goldie does and when I do both I wipe twice—once each way—if you shit you almost always pee too at least a little—maybe men wipe their pricks if they pee while they’re shitting—just a little dab at the tip to blot it while he’s got the tissue handy anyway—all these girls—pulling down their pants and hiking up their skirts—fat pale bottoms spreading over the edges—I wish I could piss like a man, standing up so cool—belly thrown forward—shoulders back—head down watching—give it a shake and stuff it back in—pulling out on the pants and in on the gut to zip. It even sounds different—a steady pouring instead of all this splash and spray and you can’t aim—they were coming to repossess the furniture and she wanted to keep the rug—pistachio or spumoni and soft—she loved it and crouched with her skirt pulled up to her armpits and her chin on her knees staring down at the rug with her face very red and her hands folded tight—arms gripping her belly and we could see her water and the long brown steaming out in the cold room and it fell and first one end hit and then the other end and the first end bounced up a little like a log when it topples and she was crying and her nose was running and she was talking and she smeared it all over in the long hairs of the rug until they matted and stank in long strokes with an old newspaper and wanted us to come and do it too but we ran away and hid behind the cold furnace and heard when the knock came at the door and waited a long time to go up. She was cooking on a hot plate where the gas range had been and the rug was gone.

  On the chalk board where the menu is usually written, someone has forgotten to erase the MERRY XMAS AND HAPPY NEW YEAR signed ARVID OWSLEY, JACKSON COUNTY SHERIFF. On the table in front of the window someone has forgotten to take down the little Christmas tree. Its needles fall faster than the snow outside the window.

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  Jean is brushing her hair. It is pink and electric. She has no eyebrows but draws them red and arching on her white face. Jean is a prostitute and works bars. She came here after I did but she has been here many times. On the day she came Kathy told us she had been seen downstairs being booked. Everybody was glad to see her. She spent the first night in the key-cell. The second night she slept in 4 cell. Since then she has been in 3 cell with Rose and the others. Sometimes Kathy teases her about being a one-night stand. Jean takes out her picture of Pudge. “That’s my little girl….Isn’t she sweet?” and kisses the picture. Pudge is short and fat. In the picture she is wearing a motorcycle jacket. Her hair is short, slicked back in a D.A. Pudge is a taxi driver. Usually Pudge brings Jean two cartons of cigarettes once a week on visiting day. One week she didn’t. All that week Jean cried at night and fought with everybody. On the next visiting day Jean came back from the window crying. She said she felt horrible for having been so angry at Pudge. The snow had been very bad and Pudge had spent the money on boots to keep her feet from freezing. Jean explains how she can’t have children but they were going to arrange for Pudge to get pregnant and then they would raise the child. They would love a little girl. Jean is very tough but her face is lovely when she talks about it.

  Goldie is asking for Kotex—she throws her hip out and pouts and looks up at Kathy saying may I please have some—and Kathy smiling looking down at her with her hands flat in her back pockets says sure they’re in here—and holds aside the key-cell curtain and Goldie flounces in expecting the pat on her ass and they are gone for a long time and everybody whispers making jokes like at parties when people disappear into bedrooms—and then Goldie comes out with her ponytail half undone and her face red and they kid her saying did you get what you wanted and Kathy says nothing—just strolls around the bull pen and everybody respects her.

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  Each morning after breakfast there is Jesus humma on the intercom. There is a speaker in the back wall of each cell. A man says:

  Hail Mary, full of Grace,

  The Lord is with thee.

  Blessed art thou amongst women

  And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus….

  Then a group of women repeat it—then he says it and they repeat it. Over and over again for three hours every morning. There is a steel screen all around the speakers and there is no way to turn it off. It usually puts me to sleep. The slap of Blendina’s cards goes on. Sometimes I imagine it is the snap of the whip on the shoulders of the women who are praying. I can see them kneeling on the stone floor in their mint green robes. The man passes between them, striking slowly and chanting, striking slowly as they chant. It drives Rose crazy. After it’s been on for half an hour or so each morning she runs to the john and stuffs toilet paper in her ears. She marches up and down the bull pen beating her belly with her fists and crying:

  Hail Mary full of fish

  The Lord hath fucked thee

  Cursed are thee and the

  Fruit of thy womb Jesus!

  After a while she lies on the floor laughing. Periodically she shouts “Fruit of thy womb, Jesus!” and goes on laughing.

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  We are all very neat and tidy. There is so little space that if it is at all cluttered you go berserk. All the bunks are made within minutes after we get up in the morning. We are jealous of our bunks. They are all we can claim as property. Two and a half feet by six. The green uniforms are washed in the jail laundry and the one you’re wearing today may be on some other size twelve tomorrow. But the bunks are our own and only friends are allowed to sit on them.

  They say if you do much time you come out neat for life. The janitor at a place I once worked in had spent eighteen years in prison in Alabama. He kept the floors shining and each chair sat up to its desk just so. He once told me I was the first woman he’d seen after he got out.

  They are looking for the horse carver. It seems one of the horses is missing. They came back in the morning and the pole was empty. It changes the probability—it alters the balance of the machine—it disappoints children. There is a sign on the pole $1,000 reward and they are searching for Geppetto.

  The shrinks have joined the campaign. They swim nightly to yachts in the harbor—breast-stroking singly and in groups—sniffing out the bunks of sad-eyed homosexuals and pissing into them—stand barefooted dripping in the narrow aisles waving piss out from under their bellies onto the feather-comforted fags and then dive back and a long swim to the pale little boat and the Yiddish Fa
lange. When dawn comes they argue eclectic electroshock in their black rubber suits and eat horse meat in secret.

  The little markets with their German proprietors spring up in every town selling loins and ribs and roasts and horseburger and the students go ostentatiously and serve horse meat to the faculty with all the proper sauces in an artificial ethnos—there is no other word—no innocent word like beef or pork or venison so the little old ladies buy just a pound for my poodle she’s so spoiled and poor mothers feed it to small daughters lying and children sit chewing one bite for the longest time it is so tough and cry in the movies when the horsie gets hurt and in all the small towns and all the medium sized towns people sit in dark places gnawing guiltily at horse meat and indiscreet Miss T. develops a strange laugh and racing legs and an inclination to dive into every fire she sees.

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  I write my name on the wall behind the bull pen john. There’s a space above the ventilation shaft that can’t be seen unless you’re standing on the pot. The air from the shaft makes the wall black and greasy there. I write it in the dirt with my finger. I flush the toilet once in a while with my foot so nobody will blunder in on me. I started this after they took the Bible away with Patsy.

  We all knew she was weird as soon as we saw her. I was sitting in the bull pen just to be out of the cell for a while. The door opened and she came marching in looking straight ahead. We all stared. She was wearing a white cashmere suit and alligator heels. Her hair was cut off blunt at the ears and was a peculiar greasy black color that jarred with the paste of her face. Her eyes were pink and wild. Under her arm she carried a huge white leather Bible. Kathy stepped up when she came in but the matron came in and fastened the door behind her. She motioned Kathy away. It was Mrs. Eliot. We all respected her so nobody said anything. She said “Girls, this is Patsy, she will be staying with us for a while.” She smiled around at us with her rosy old-lady face as though this were a guest and we were to make her welcome. We were all amazed but one or two people said Hiya Patsy and hello and then halted not knowing what to do. Patsy didn’t look as if she knew we were there. Mrs. Eliot glowed proudly. “Kathy, will you be so kind as to bring a uniform to 4 cell for Patsy? About a fourteen I should think.” Kathy wandered off to get the uniform. Patsy had not moved since she came in. Her eyes were fixed straight out on nothing. Mrs. Eliot touched her arm and they marched toward 4 cell. We followed wondering. I heard Rose muttering behind me “Who the hell is she? Lynda Bird?”