by Beth Harden
I roll down the window, reach around and snag the note off the windshield. I’m not sure if the dance in my gut is one of anticipation or apprehension. You just never know what crazed individual may have spotted the key fob on your belt clip, noted the make and model of the car you drive, or memorized what direction you walk in from every morning waiting for that day of opportunity when he discharges out into the same dull afternoon and leaves his first mark as a free man. A make-no-mistake reminder, I know who you are and where you go. But not this time, thank God! I recognize Hastings’ sloppy script immediately. An exhale of relief comes involuntarily; a sigh of sadness follows.
Elise, I still believe that we were meant to be. I think we are each broken in our own way and perhaps that is part of the attraction, but I also believe we could find a fix together. Though I don’t yet understand what’s caused the painful hardness in you, I think in time you could feel safe enough to share it with me. If not, I’m willing to work around it or possibly even through it. Just as I hope you would do for me. I’ve learned that sometimes there is not just one right answer. For me, being in love with you is as right as fighting to keep my family together. What has come before is already in place but we can build our own separate future together. I hope this makes sense to you.
I stop reading for a moment. Everything about me is always past tense, past imperfect. I can’t see ahead. Perhaps the future is a discretionary reward that God grants to those He deems able to handle it. He’s got a big book of probability like the Classification manual used to pigeon-hole offenders and try and predict which ones will make the wardens look good at end-of-fiscal year. Those most likely to succeed and those who fall into the high risk category. God must be more than a little perplexed when it comes to my case. I never predicted this, He says, scratching his divine head. Not from her. Call it what it is. I’m a recidivist, a skid-bidder, a repeat offender who always returns to the start-point where things first went wrong. I get a pretty nice streak of momentum going but eventually it all circles back to the point of disaster. I am a statistic, one that good minds will puzzle over when it comes to sorting out the winners from the losers. I glance back at the note in my hands and slowly read the final sentences.
I guess I’m asking you to trust me and see where this can lead. If you are not able to make that leap, I forgive you and will always care about you. Love, James
A sluice of rainwater dumps down on the roof of the car and drains over the hood. In minutes, condensation swamps the interior of the vehicle and masks the landscape in a gray film. The wild turkeys are caught in the onslaught and stand out in the open field like soldiers under siege, about to surrender. I watch the wipers whisk right to left, left to right in a manic race to clear the water away, succeeding for a second before the wash overcomes the glass again. Back and forth in ceaseless uncertainty like my mind’s eye trying to open a long view to the horizon, spotting that one gasp of beauty before it all gets socked in with fog again.
I force myself for a moment to think of the others in his life. I acknowledge that he has a wife though I can get by that one with some justification. We’re all adults here; all capable and culpable for our success or failures. But then there are those dear daughters sprouting up now into adolescent restlessness, eager to ask questions of a bigger, brighter world than the disillusioned banter that passes for conversation at home. They look to their father to promote these fantasies and fuel their flight up and away from mediocrity. It’s so fucking obvious, it hurts. I could never harm the dreams of a child who is preparing to make a launch of faith from the solid platform her loving Dad has built. She needs to know that if all else fails, she can always go back to that one place of safety. It is not for me to rob her of that right.
If you are not able to make that leap, I forgive you, wrote James. I’m in the driver’s seat now. Where I am going is no place for a reluctant passenger with baggage.
“Then forgive me,” I say out loud as I put the car back into gear and slop forward through the forming puddles without looking back.
#
What was I expecting, really? Men dressed in tuxes taking the podium to deliver the speech of their lives? I mean, this isn’t the Oscars. No doubt there are characters here that have played leading roles with great finesse. Others assumed cameo appearances in my seven-week production. There is no guild of critics or an audience poll to base the results on. I am simply a one-woman committee hired to discern who among the current cast had the most convincing auditions. Still it’s an award of great import. Even with all the build-up, the last day turns out to be sorely anti-climactic
The guys want it over and done with. They’ve played the game, jumped through hoops and dragged their unmotivated carcasses out of their bunks to earn that twice-weekly checkmark. Now it’s time for me to live up to my side of the bargain and hand over the goods.
“Will Parole get a copy of this?” Zimmer asks.
“Can our people on the outside write the Warden?” wonders Noble.
“How long will it take before my release package is approved?” whines Ortega.
Why am I surprised that no matter how it’s worded, the pressing question that overrides all else is: When am I getting out of here? It’s a damn prison after all. Put in the same circumstance, I’d be harping on the same point just as loudly.
“If you have any question about the assessment, come see me afterwards. Please sign the top copy and return it to me. You can keep the bottom one. Hold on to that one in case there’s ever any question about your compliance. I will enter the completion code into the computer today and put these into your master file. It will be scanned into your Community Release case notes so everybody is on board.”
The men file up and drop their last assignment in the metal homework bin on my desk. In exchange, I hand each man his prize. The only exception is Willis who was given his report one week ago. He has not bothered to come today. There are a few sincere thank-you’s from the crowd but attention is elsewhere now. They’ve disengaged and have mentally moved on to tackling the next hurdle in this obstacle course at the end of which is freedom. A part of me is hurt, but why? This isn’t a publicity party for Ms. Abrams. I am paid to present this approved curriculum in generic fashion to the dozen or so men in each incoming class. A robot could do this, though admittedly not as well. We complete the required exchange. They drop in their final questionnaire and eagerly accept the long-awaited stamp of approval.
After they are gone, I feel that familiar tinge of sadness. I’ve never been good with transitions. I collect up the final papers and begin to arrange them in alphabetical order. Mr. Euclid will be pleasantly surprised to see the last-minute scribble where I changed his participation from Fair to Very Good. His parting comments today impressed me. His troubled mind had actually processed far more than his wild flight of thoughts had indicated. Crespo is downright grateful to have been allowed to stay, nodding and smiling and clutching his certificate to his chest. I was tougher on Noble but then, he’s been tough on me, holding me to task and pushing me with impatience, the tip of his pen ever poised above a grievance form. The Rev looked stunned that someone could view him as anything less than perfect. He took a hit on Attitude.
Mixed in with the homework assignment papers is a folded sheet of notebook paper, woven over and tucked under to form a perfect little origami pouch. At first I mistake it for a kite, the cryptic, coded notes that find their way around the facility riding in laundry bags until they reach their intended recipient, but this is a personal note addressed to me. I don’t need the signature at the bottom to identify its author. The primitive block letters are created with so much force that the pencil point tears through the page in spots. Even on paper, Noble’s intensity is hard to control.
Most people do this because it’s their job. I can tell that you are not in this for the money. You treat us like human beings. Something not found in the DOC where we are judged by the color of our uniform. I thank you for all you
did for me and for all of us. And for not giving up when anyone else in their right mind would have. You made the class a comfortable place where everyone’s story could be told no matter how ugly or unimportant. My story is no different.
My first reaction is to run after him, grab the lousy evaluation back, erase the scores and rewrite the constructive criticism I had offered. But he’s a big boy now. The honest words of one woman will not break him. We all want to be liked and as shallow and superficial as it sounds, I’m no different. Now here is my validation spelled out in black and white, scribbled with a stolen pencil nub on the back of an electronics order form. Proof that there’s something wrong with me. A real counselor would probably figure it out in the first five minutes of a therapy session. But I’m a special case, a complicated one. I am much like an empty bottle held to the wind. If tilted just so, the vessel emits a sing-song of haunting beauty, a story that forms within a vacuum of apparent emptiness and is brought to life by the friction of troubled souls blowing by me.
Hidden at the bottom of the pile, I discover a beautiful dream catcher disguised in a bundle of paper towels. The center circle has been constructed from twisted cardboard likely stripped from toilet paper rolls and molded with toothpaste, then wrapped in yards of dental floss. The tips of the intricately knotted fringe have been either dipped in ink or more likely hand-colored with permanent marker. A painstaking process exacted under cover of night using tools that are stolen and hoarded as risky contraband. The gift is from Bowman, the hater. My new number one fan.
CHAPTER 15: TIPPING POINT
The final voice message comes through like a cryptic telegraph: Not long now. No more pain. Come soon. What she doesn’t have the energy to say, my brother Dale explains in terse terms after he gently removes the phone from her trembling hand. Mom is actively dying though it’s anybody’s guess how many days it will take. It all depends on how much grit she’s got left in her and whether or not she chooses to summon it for one last rally. What is known for certain is that it Mel Braum has made the decision to discontinue all treatment and forced feedings. Since she is of sound mind, the doctors are obligated to sign her living will into orders. All nutritional support will be withheld starting now. Morphine will be administered as palliative pain control and only at a minimal therapeutic dose per Mom’s request. She wants to go out with her eyes open and her mind clear. She wants to see her Maker coming in the clouds. At my insistence, Dale holds up the receiver to her ear one last time.
“Anything you want to say to me?” I ask, terrified by the thought that she might actually have nothing for me or not answer at all. But at the same time, I’m frightened to death by what she might utter in her last moments of truth. She struggles to utter some distinct speech but the latest bolus of morphine has flooded her control center. Her language is slurred like a drunk but she is able to master one all-important word: ‘Come.’ There’s no mistaking it.
“I’m on my way, Mom,” I whisper. “I’m coming home. Two days. Give me two days. Okay?” I plead. I can hear the clicking gasp that indicates that not only has she heard and comprehended, she’s agreed to wait.
#
The door slams behind me cutting off the clamor. Nothing stops these guys; not the normal social cues like turning off the light, locking the door or turning my back to the incessant jabber. Even after I dismiss them with an obvious nod to the guard who pops the door as I push past, they keep at it like a whooping throng of howlers dropping from the canopy. There is no stopping this shit-show of human commotion; not even the recall announcement that orders them back to their bunks for count. They take their sweet time and drag their feet, waiting for me to clear the stairs and appear on the second tier so they can continue to holler out their demands. I’d rather hang back and linger in the calm darkness of the cloistered stairwell but if I don’t reappear shortly, the officers will come looking. As I round the first landing a wave of alarm hits me. A lone figure leans against the concrete wall partway down the stairs potentially blocking the way. All inmates should be back in their cells. The officers are all on deck. There are no windows in this area, no viewing point from above. Shit! The body alarm has slunk over to the backside of my belt. I’ll have to put down my clipboard and water bottle to activate it. I press onwards so the loiterer doesn’t sense my concern.
“Hey, Mizz Abrams! I want to thank you,” Willis says. His voice breaks the stillness in the tight space.
“Jesus, Mary! You could have warned me,” I say grasping my chest. He unfolds his body from the dim shadow and jogs down a couple steps in my direction.
“Why aren’t you in your cell? You don’t want to get hit with a ticket for being out of place, do you?” I ask.
‘The C.O. on post asked me to deliver some supplies to the tier men.”
My mouth is moving but my brain is racing ahead, thinking of how I can dodge him. The Parole hearing took place two days ago. I haven’t seen the dispositions yet. He couldn’t know about the switch I’d pulled with the paperwork, could he? Even if he had produced the glowing recommendation I had given him, it wouldn’t have mattered. In his haste to thank me, Willis hadn’t stopped to notice that the document I used was an outdated version and was missing the requisite signature that proved its validity. Inmates were always trying to pass off forged paperwork and get a newbie to put a copy in the master file. That’s the reason that all communication that makes its way into the book of record never touches an offender’s fingertips. My plan was foolproof. My colleagues at Parole wouldn’t give him a duplicate of the form I submitted when they laid the bloody bad news on him. And even if they had made any reference to it, his objections would have fallen on deaf ears. Their decision is made long before they hold video court.
“I saw Parole on Tuesday,” Willis says. His tone is measured and flat with absolutely no indication of the outcome.
“And…?”
“I know it’s all because of you,” he replies. My heart drops and the pit of stomach rushes up to meet it. This part wasn’t in the original plan, getting caught face-to-face in a closed corridor with a man who has just had his freedom stolen away from him.
“There are a multitude of factors that go into the decision, you know,” I stammer. “You can’t really know which one carried the most weight with the committee.”
“Oh but I do, though,” he says. “It was yours.” If I race back down the steps and flail against the door, perhaps the officers will have circled round the far perimeter and be within earshot to come to my rescue. I shift my weight slightly in anticipation of making a quick reversal; but before I can make my move, a surprising thing happens. Mr. Willis breaks into a huge, beaming smile and presses both hands in a gesture of prayer with his fingers pointing upwards like a steeple.
“I could never thank you enough for your help. I was approved! They granted me parole. My date is August 16th. That’s next week, Mizz A! Can you believe that shit?” he gloats.
“No,” I reply incredulously. “I can’t.”
“I know. Me either. Thank you mightily,” Willis says. He jumps down to my level and extends his arms towards me. “May I?” I don’t know if he means to hug me or dance with me. When I hesitate, he grins and lifts the bundle of papers from my hands. “C’mon, Elise. I’ll walk you out,” he adds, as if we are on some kind of date and he has the liberty to escort me safely to my car. He raps four times on the upper door in sharp succession and it swings open. Officer Weiss waves us through.
“Hey, Buddy! Take this roster on down to the Lieutenant’s office and grab me a bag of chips from the hall keeper’s desk on your way back, will ya?” he asks.
“No problem, Bud,” laughs Willis.
So it’s all fun and games and slaps on the back now that he’s walking out into their community soon. Wait! Did I hear him correctly? Had he just called me by my first name? Willis bumps shoulders with Weiss, shoots a sidelong wink my way and takes some fancy steps out into the hallway.
“Take advan
tage of me now, bitches, cuz you won’t be seeing me again after next week,” he says with swagger. Or is it arrogance? I’m moving in slow motion as I follow behind. How could it be that with all the bad press I’d provided, he’d still been granted early release? Had the folks over at Parole lost their fucking minds? Had they failed to read the recommendation? Had they just blinked a lazy eye to it and made a choice of convenience since he was their last case of the day and they didn’t want to leave late? Or had someone pulled a fast one and hooked him up? By the time I reach the sally port on my way to close up shop, I’ve run through the gamut of emotions and settled on a deep seething bitterness. After all the time I have put in and everything I have laid down and given up for this stinking agency, they had left me to hang. Fuckers! Did they realize who they were siding with? Better yet, did they know who they had chosen to side against? Didn’t they give a good goddamn about going to bed with a clear conviction?
“Hey, Terran!” I call. The happy man interrupts the conversation he’s having with one of the lieutenants and swings his head round to see who’s looking for him.
“Trust me. I’ll see you out there,” I yell above the din.
He grins slightly and gives a sallow wave, unsure if he’s interpreted the remark correctly above the roar of the gates that part and then shuttle back together, ushering thousands of men out to the streets and welcoming many of them back after a short run. I believe Willis when he says he won’t be one of those repeats. He’s too smart to get caught again.