by Beth Harden
I head first to the upper level that is stale with the overflow of forced heat. The lifers there live in single cells with Muslim prayer rugs angled south to southeast. Cardboard stolen from the kitchen deliveries covers the open toilets when the convicts-turned- converts kneel down to pray. Thirty feet below, bolted tables sport red and black checkerboard squares painted on the cement tops so no one can steal the fun. The young bucks with taut bare chests decorated in tribal ink are loose down there and start up the chorus.
“Miss! Miss! Counselor!” they yell. I keep walking above them, following the numbered cells in a clockwise rotation laid out like a postal route with odd numbers on the left side and evens on the right.
“Did you do what I asked you to do?” someone yells. I indicate with a circling motion of my hand that I intend to keep on track.
“Did you take care of that thing for me?” They keep at it, whining, asking the same questions over and over when the answers are not to their liking. One lap complete, I head down to the next level. Everywhere I go, I’m being watched. Eyes intently peer through gaps between doors. Small shards of mirrors poke out and are angled to see who walks this mile. The self-consciousness has never disappeared; my heightened state of alertness is permanently ingrained. The difference now is the amount of years under my belt. I do not shirk away from discomfort. I apologize to no one. Don’t mistake my kindness for weakness, a bluff thrown out by men who don’t have the strength to make it in here. I’m not ashamed to tell the truth. My kindness is a defect, a weakness grown out of trust, that genetic crack in the female armor that evil men count on and act upon.
A towering Hispanic sporting a knitted skull cap blocks my way. He looks disappointed already.
“Mr. Acevedo. I passed your time sheet on to Records to double-check. They’re looking into your question about jail credit.” His shoulders relax and a faint grin smoothes out that snarl. It is enough that I know his name, that his question has not been forgotten in the barrage of needs.
“Thank you, Miss Abrams,” he says cordially and steps back into his cell to let me pass. I’m headed to get a signature from the pasty twenty-one year old from Gloucester who’s been convicted with the rape of his ex-girlfriend. The charges were pressed by her parents when they found out he decided to break up with their slutty daughter. He was subsequently charged and sentenced to ten years with mandatory time. He took it very hard yesterday when I had to tell him he was stipulated to the year-long in-house sex offender treatment program. I left him sniffling and rubbing his acne-covered cheeks after I put him on the phone to his mom despite the directive that prohibits that. Sometimes empathy has to overrule ethics. Now they’re rescinding his good time. Seventy-two cell is at the back corner of the middle tier tucked away where the rolling laundry bins for B-block are kept. He’s an okay kid who didn’t double-check his addition before sleeping with his fifteen-year old seductress. I hate this kind of case. It has injustice stamped all over it. But I need to remind myself, this is why I’m here.
I pull up in front of the cell door. A draft of frigid air is blowing through from the north side. The glass must be broken or they’ve jimmied makeshift antennae through the small space where the old windows drop in. This corner of the block is dark and devoid of direct sun. Both bunks are empty. The blanket on the top is missing and the mattress bare and free of the usual crowd of GED books and papers. Was he moved out? And then I see the limp body partially concealed by the front of the metal bunk and the plastic chair tipped on its side. He’s still moving in tiny jerking motions that are powered by reflexes only. The braid of shredded linen sheet around his neck has done its job. A bustle of foam leaks from his nose. I push the button on my body alarm and freeze in place.
“Code purple, “I stutter as the first two guards arrive on the scene. All my training goes out the window. I forget about the glass box on the wall with the cutting tool that could free him. And the incident report I will be required to fill out, the one that will claim the officers did their thirty-minute tours per post order which I will eventually sign to confirm that all protocol was followed and no one is at fault. The banging of multiple levers starts up as the cells are popped open, prisoners pushed back and then locked up. Everyone herded away from the truth.
It all comes rushing back. The movie starts up. Now over twenty-six years old, the film has lost its color and is only a flickering series of black-and-white frames. I close my eyes and put a hand on the railing to steady myself.
“Counselor Abrams. Are you alright?” someone asks. The trusted tier men come to the rescue with wet rags and a small carton of sour orange juice. I feel them lower me to the gritty floor where there are more germs than the number of stars that have passed over this prison in the past eighteen years. Their strong hands touch my skin. Good men with bad choices or bad men with good intentions? Decades ago, these kinds of men had left me for dead. I was the victim, just about that kid’s age, noosed, and left out to hang by a system that failed me. It’s a movie played in rewind skimming fast over the hard parts. A memoir; a horror story; a frenzied dream flapping madly off its reel in the haste to get back to its beginning.
March – 1988
My first thought was that the Rapture must have happened. Jesus had finally made the trip down to meet his children halfway to heaven, gathered his latch-key kids up out of this disappointing world and brought them to the eternal party. But if so, then God had split the Second Coming right down the middle of the long stretch of Barnum Boulevard which opened up like a parade route minus the spectators. All the evangelists apparently had lived on the north side of the street. Once I stepped inside Tap House Spirits to pick out a bottle of ice wine for the night’s celebration, two things were readily apparent. Number one, I couldn’t afford the specialty beverage I had in mind and secondly, the place was strangely empty. At that time on a Thursday night, happy hour should have been in full swing with freshmen bumping to the Bangles over at Malone’s Place. In the ten minutes that it took to browse the shelves, not one customer stepped in the establishment. I paid for the discounted Riesling and walked outside. The parking lot adjacent to Galardi’s Market, which was typically thick with frat brothers banging green grocery carts like bumper cars into the fenders of parked sedans, was dead quiet. I gazed at the Checks Cashed/ Bail Bonds strip across the way. Restless men collected in shadows under the pharmacy awning. Still too early for trouble, they mimicked and swaggered and shouted instead.
It occurred to me suddenly that it was Spring Break which explained the absence of activity on the academic side of town. People had cleared out in Dodge Darts or on Greyhound buses headed towards Lauderdale; everyone except a twenty-year old over-achiever who cared more about my suma cum laude honors than dangling my breasts over balconies. It was dusk by then, that uncertain hour which was not yet night but well beyond the clarity of day; certainly not a great time to be walking alone up this deserted stretch. I picked up the pace, clutching the bottle that threatened to slip from its paper bag sleeve. If I hadn’t been so focused on other things such as Aaron’s pending visit and the deadline on my thesis, I’d have remembered to stuff an extra twenty bucks in my pocket to call a cab. The city bus stopped a few blocks back at the intersection of Walden and Highlands Avenue and even if I rattled together the right amount of change, it seemed a contraindication to walk back through dark territory to meet it. I crossed the recess playground of Revere Elementary which sprawled in empty abandon with a few lone tetherball poles that dangled limp rope. On the far side of the fenced lot, modest bungalows and pre-World War II homes started up and ascended in stature and glory as the streets backed farther and farther away from downtown. I kept heading north.
As each subsequent block unfolded in a darker cast of shadow, I checked and double-checked my surroundings. Small details caught my eye. A McDonald’s wrapper tailed the foot of a stop sign and one small light blue child’s shoe was new to the sidewalk since yesterday. It was times like these I regretted n
ot having my car but off-street parking had proved fatal to my Buick Apollo. Its transaxle had been pinned against the curb by the epileptic neighbor who came roaring out of his garage mid-seizure. I crossed for the last time just south of the Victorian Tudor that was my temporary home. Mrs. Schuster, the next door neighbor, was sitting at her card table on her allseason porch sipping tomato soup while her cross-eyed, urine-colored poodle dug frantic nails against the glass. I lifted a hand in greeting though I wasn’t at all sure she could see me looking from the inside out.
I jumped two steps at a time up onto the pressure-treated deck at the back of the house. The tiny plum-colored buds on the Japanese maple had already begun to swell and ripen. It was a balmy March evening full of late winter wind and warm as lamb’s breath. The atmosphere was moist and expectant, a perfect climate for couples. The key turned in the dead-bolt and as soon as the door swung inward, I heard the ringing of the wall phone. I jimmied it again to quickly lock the bolt but it resisted, so I yanked the key out and ran to catch the call.
“Hey, Lissa. I was getting worried. I called several times.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to be gone that long. I just went to do a few errands. You getting ready to leave?”
“Well, here’s the hitch. I’ve had so many employees call out sick that I need to be on shift and try to recruit some workers,” Aaron said hesitantly. He was all too aware of how disappointed I would be. Our opportunities to see one another had dwindled as each of our separate lives picked up momentum and responsibility.
“Oh. Does that mean you can’t make it down at all?” I asked tentatively.
“No. My plan is to get everything running smoothly on the first shift production run tomorrow and then I can check out. This means I could probably be there by dinner time tomorrow.”
“Well, I wish we had more than twenty-four hours together but I understand. It pisses me off though that people don’t consider the effect of their actions on others. Like maybe you had plans, too.”
“That’s the downside of being the boss. Comes with the job,” Aaron said.
“Well, I’ll get the bulk of my essay done tonight and get to bed early. Maybe I’ll cook up something special for us,” I said.
“No chance, sweetie. You’ll be rewarded for your patience with a night out.”
“Alright. Drive safely on your way down.”
“I do love you,” Aaron said, followed by an audible sigh of relief. The grocery stock boy turned food manufacturing supervisor was off the hook. There was plenty of time now to chill the wine and beer which I popped onto the top shelf of the refrigerator next to the tray of gouda cheese, half-sours and sliced kielbasa. Food could wait. I’d go change and work for a few hours first. Walking through the Welton’s residence was like a trip through a National Geographic magazine. The hallways, study and parlor housed a collection of museum-quality souvenirs from numerous sabbaticals. I loved to float from room to room revering each intricate and valuable object; items like the hand-stitched table tapestries from Calcutta with lavish beading and jeweled embroidery or the Sese grinding bowls from Acra carved into a swirl of safari animals. The hallways were decorated from floor to ceiling with grainy photographs, visual tributes to travels where elephants lolled on their sides in septic rivers spraying joyous loops of water in a heavenly arc over the malnourished backs of their trainers and young women in royal kaleidoscope silk scraping the skin off their heels as they padded dusty miles to a school with no desks or books. The irony of temples besides tents and palaces besieged by peasants. The dichotomy was both cruel and captivating, no different than the families back home living in broken-down Buicks with skinny dogs and shiftless husbands, their women, ugly-mouthed from stringing up wet diapers kid after kid. Their poverty in stark contrast to the Village Improvement Society whose aim it was to clear the unsightly clutter from view as their sloops sailed around the leeward side of the Point.
I headed up the main staircase to my room. The camisole and panties for tomorrow’s soiree were already laid out on top of the cedar sweater chest. It mattered little what clothing covered up these delicates. The outer garments would be stripped and flung in a boisterous display of hasty conquest; but from there, the pace always became a ritual of worship. Aaron liked to linger over lingerie tracing fingers on lace straps and elastic hem, pressing down, rubbing inwards, nudging and nuzzling the thin fabrics that prevented him from having me. And when the gorgeous, slow dance ceased and he finally peeked beneath, it was the like the first time, each time, as he gazed fully on the fragrant mysterious folds between my legs. But tonight, I would relax in casual comfort and use my thinking cap instead. I switched off the light and walked back down to the kitchen.
I didn’t want to break open the chilled wine so I helped myself to a glass of Northstar merlot from the owner’s overstocked collection in the pantry. I hopped back on the IBM computer Dad had donated as a going-off gift. It was no small sacrifice on his part, even with regular overtime. I picked up the thread where I had left off in my analysis of the self-destructive dynamic of Prader -Willi Syndrome, a rare genetic disorder that causes the sufferer to gorge himself to death, if allowed. Charlie Kravit had all the classic signs: the prominent nasal bridge, high narrow forehead, tapered fingers and thickened middle. He’d been my study subject at Mass General’s genetic counseling clinic for over sixteen weeks now. This piece of cutting-edge research might just seal my chance of making the leap from a state university to Northeastern, the golden sister school down the way.
#
Two hours later, I was growing weary. I decided to print off this latest version and quit for the night. The green printer button flashed off and on as the ink cartridge jumped into high gear and began spooling out the eight-by-elevens. Several pages cascaded out of the Hewlett-Packard and onto the wide pine boards. I leaned over almost flush with the floor in order to snag the strays that landed under the desk and then straightened back up with effort. Suddenly, something felt different. The bamboo blinds on the French door brushed ever so slightly against the glass. A fluctuation in the air flow, perhaps? A flicker of a shadow appeared to race across the glass front of the china closet. I spun quickly to my right but the dining room and adjacent parlor were empty. It was just me and Dan Rather whose stone face flickered from the portable Magnavox on the Formica countertop. There was a slight rush of sound like the break of suction, then the full clatter of the storm door as it swung open wildly and hit the iron railing. The little spit of a dog next door started another volley of yapping.
“Shit!” I said. I had neglected to close it tightly. The pin on the hydraulic arm had dropped out a while back and the outside door had to be manually pulled shut or else it would set sail on any stiff breeze. I got up and slid on quiet socks in a little Katarina Witt spin over the icy ceramic tile floor. The dim bulb on the oven hood threw only a faint spotlight on what I had imagined to be a one-woman exhibition. I realized abruptly that I was not alone. It took only one appalling moment to fathom the facts. There were two hungry-looking men who’d just rushed in the back door and were paused, half-panting, trying to get their bearings like insects who alight on a strange surface with antennae aloft. They’d brought cigarette smoke and the odor of fast-food in with them. The distinct smell of the streets. Perhaps they were confused and had walked into the wrong door looking for someone else’s party.
“Can I help you?” I asked. The question came out like a digital recording that was both neutral and generic in tone.
“Are your parents home? Anyone else in the house?” snapped the bolder of the two. His eyes were glazed and appeared to tick in circles. His entire demeanor was jumpy. Instantly, my whole affect dimmed and flattened. My survival instincts dictated the modus operandi: Calm is Contagious. I hoped my blasé demeanor would communicate that.
“No. I rent here. This is not my house,” I stated in a wooden tone. The threat was perceived and intercepted in the air space between us. In any version of good self defense stra
tegy, the next move should be mine. My mind fell back to military training passed on from a fighter-pilot grandfather. In a crisis, he had told me, revert to the OODA loop: Observe, Orient, Decide and Act. My senses took hold of step one and began making quick visual notations. Two African-American males in their late twenties wearing discolored baseball jerseys and dark sweatshirts. One wore a New York Mets cap that tucked down a rash of short coarse curls. He was of medium height, maybe five-ten or so with little contrast between skin tone and shade of eyes. The other ducked his head away from my detection. Step two: quickly get your bearings. What tools or means of exit are available? Before I could act though, a wiry arm laced around my neck from behind. Warm fingers traced the line of my collar bone in an insidious hug that I instantly wanted to throw off. The man wore a leather glove that curled back from a dark wrist revealing chalky skin with a serpent coil of tattoo ink that spelled some sort of name. It was an important clue to decipher, but I couldn’t make it out. My eyes were suddenly swimming with panicky tears. The calligraphy morphed into a blur of olive-colored hieroglyphics that defied interpretation.
“You expecting anyone?” asked this third invader. His breath was sour and emitted an acrid smell like the extinguished wick of a candle.
“No,” I answered hastily and instantly froze in a pose of compliance. Now! Use your education! All those notebook pages of psychological theory could be put into clinical and critical practice. I had the greatest weapon of choice on my side – communication — and its power of persuasion.