by Mel Jacob
Thanks for the photos, esp. of Lexie’s drawings. That girl is a craft machine.
And I know I have already asked for so much but would mean the world to me if you could wait till I’m out to watch the rest of Breaking Bad. It’s not on in here.
I love you.
Paddy
P.S. Can you please ring Amar and ask what is going on with the appeal? If their case loads were too big and they can’t start on it yet, they should have told us.
P.P. S. Please record and engrave all our personal items with our details.
THIRTY
There’s no doubt that day-to-day life without Patrick had a much heavier sense of drudgery. It was like ploughing a field (I imagined, having never actually ploughed a field). Up and down. Up and down. Doing the same thing over and over again. But the anxiety caused by the significant events left me longing for the predictable.
‘I don’t want to go to the Father’s Day concert!’ Lexie yelled, having worked herself into a frenzy. I’d explained, many times, that she didn’t have to go to the concert. I offered to be a stand in for Patrick, or she could come to work with me or we could go out for ice-cream. But none of the scenarios appealed to Lexie. She was furious her dad wouldn’t be there, and even more furious that, post concert, she couldn’t give her handmade craft and chocolate crackles to him. Even Grace’s dad, who lived in a kingdom far, far away, could receive his gift by mail.
After much angst we reached an agreement that Lexie would go to preschool for the morning, and I would pick her up at midday, before the concert started. But when I got there Lexie had spent the morning practising the songs and wrapping the chocolate crackles and didn’t want to leave. I was delighted to see she’d had a change of heart, but I was neither dressed nor emotionally prepared for seeing the other parents.
‘How’s Patrick?’ one of the other dads asked, and the question filled me with dread. I didn’t want to lie but he was not in the inner layers of our circle. We only crossed paths at school functions and kids’ parties, and our children weren’t close friends.
‘Good.’
‘Still working from home?’
‘Not at the moment.’
‘Oh, don’t tell me that. Can you ask him if we could have lunch, talk business?’
The afternoon was peppered with similarly elusive and nerve-racking conversations. Every time Lexie yelled ‘Mum!’ I experienced a mild panic that she was going to blurt out Paddy’s whereabouts. But she didn’t. She sang the songs and ate Patrick’s chocolate crackles with a blustering enthusiasm.
Not only did Lexie enjoy the concert, she noticed the absence of several other fathers. Of course, there was Grace’s father, but Isla’s dad was sick, and several other fathers either had to work or were separated from their partners and were not able to make it.
Nick’s birthday is in October and in a moment of weakness, I had agreed to a pool party/sleepover. All the preparations were in place. I’d bought the food, including ingredients for a Millennium Falcon birthday cake, and Nick’s tight circle of friends and parents all knew about our situation, so there was none of the apprehension that normally accompanied social functions.
‘You seem like you’re doing okay?’ I said, tucking him into bed on the eve of his birthday.
‘Yeah, I feel happier.’ Nick’s outlook had improved exponentially. John had helped him channel the rhythms and the emotions that had been building inside of him into his drumming. He’d also given us some exercises to help him release his tension, like me holding a pillow while Nick punched it. Plus, I’d outsourced the wrestling to my nephew Sam, who babysat one night a week, and he had Nick begging for mercy.
‘Are you still going to see Martin?’ I asked Nick. He was the school literacy teacher and someone Nick felt very close to.
‘Yeah, he’s a good listener, tells jokes and he’s gluten free,’ he said, as though this last were a prerequisite for wise counsel.
‘I’m glad you can talk to Martin, but is there a reason the need strikes every Monday morning, during orchestra?’
‘Orchestra makes me feel sad.’
‘Really?’ I glowered at him.
‘Mum, the violins sound like dying cats!’
‘I don’t want you taking advantage of Martin’s good nature, seeing him just to get out of orchestra.’ Nick smiled his beautiful crooked smile.
‘You okay about Dad not coming to the party?’ I asked, brushing the side of his face with my hand.
‘Yeah,’ he responded, his mood suddenly pensive. ‘I wish he could come, but I’m okay.’
‘You know you can tell me . . . if there’s anything bothering you.’
He looked down at his feet and then tilted his head back up to look at my face. ‘There is one thing,’ he started, and stopped, clearly embarrassed. Even though he was only turning eight, I wondered if the question might be about a girl. I’d heard from Lexie that different girls had crushes on boys. And I wished Paddy were here to navigate us through the conversations.
‘I’m worried . . .’ he ventured and I held his hand in support, letting him know I loved him no matter what, ‘that you’ll wear your bikini to the party.’
‘I don’t wear a bikini!’
‘You do sometimes.’
‘Not when people are over,’ I said, relieved. If that was his main worry, things were going brilliantly.
The pool party was a great success, thanks to my nephew Sam, who spent the best part of three hours wrestling eight year olds into the pool. At one point, when he was fending off ten other boys, it occurred to me that hiring out a teenage male could be the answer for many boys craving fatherly affection. Certainly the idea was fraught with insurance issues but his presence made for the easiest party I have ever hosted. The boys were completely enthralled with Sam, and come bedtime, they were so exhausted they slept like babies.
It was a long grind to Christmas, and as it drew near, both Nick and Lexie, who seemed to have adapted to our new situation, were distressed that Patrick wouldn’t receive anything for Christmas.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ Patrick said, wiping the tears from Nick’s face, in the first part of what turned out to be a very interesting visit to Mannus. ‘I don’t need presents. Andrews in the kitchen is making us fish and chips.’
Nick looked unconvinced but his melancholy quickly vanished with the arrival of Cody and Crystal.
‘Before you go,’ Paddy said, ‘Andrews’ kids are coming today—’
‘Yeah, I know. Please, thank you, no excluding. I got it,’ Nick said, edging backwards towards the door.
‘That’s good manners,’ Paddy said, holding Nick’s arm, ‘but they’re coming for the first time and he asked me to have a word with you because he hasn’t told them this is a prison.’
Normally it was difficult to tell what Nick was thinking, but on this occasion, as his eyes moved from the various signs to the CO who was walking brusquely through the room, not to mention all the green tracksuited men, I could tell verbatim.
‘He told his kids he’s been working overseas and the company makes him stay in a camp,’ Paddy continued.
‘That doesn’t explain why everyone’s wearing green . . .’ Nick wasn’t so much critical as confused.
‘He told them it’s an army camp,’ Paddy explained.
‘It’s not even camo or khaki.’ Nick knew about the difference because, prior to his incarceration, Patrick had been in the Army Reserves. ‘He lied . . . to his kids?’ he asked.
‘Not real—. Well, yes,’ Patrick said.
‘Why?’ Nick asked.
‘I don’t know . . . maybe he thought it would be easier that way.’
It hadn’t occurred to Paddy and me not to tell the kids that he had gone to prison, but, thinking about the events of the past few years, I could see how much easier my life might have been if we had.
‘We’re not asking you to lie. Just don’t say it’s a prison,’ Paddy said, as Nick circled the room with his eyes ag
ain.
‘I won’t say anything, it’s definitely an “army camp”,’ he said, using his fingers to indicate inverted commas. Paddy and I laughed, not just at the absurdity of the situation but because it was the first time either of our children had managed to use that gesture appropriately. Our little boy was growing up.
During that visit, Lexie took a tumble from the play equipment and a large egg-like bump appeared on her forehead. We soothed her with words and cold water but she continued to cry hysterically. So I went to the office to ask for an icepack.
‘We don’t have any,’ replied Popovic, unmoved.
‘Look she’s injured, as you can hear. I’ve tried everything and she needs an icepack,’ I said, appealing to his blank expression. I didn’t want to leave the centre, because visitation rules prevented same day re-entry.
‘Are there icepacks anywhere else in the jail?’ I asked. ‘For when the inmates hurt themselves?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, unable to make the connection.
‘Any chance you might be able to radio someone to bring one up?’ I asked, as politely as I could manage, and he agreed.
Soon afterwards, a female CO arrived at the visitors centre, with an icepack and a chocolate bar for Lexie. She was lovely, and stayed with us until Lexie was back to her usual exuberant self.
Later in the afternoon I asked Popovic if I could fill our used water bottles and place them in the office freezer for Lexie on the trip home.
‘Can’t have people freezing clear liquid. Could be vodka,’ he said. I didn’t respond. There was no point arguing, clearly he’d been handpicked from the Mensa Society.
Throughout the course of the day, Nick provided us with updates on the army camp scenario. ‘They still think it’s a camp,’ he said at lunch, and, ‘They said their dad doesn’t call much because he’s in a remote area with high mountains, and no reception.’ At the end of the day, after we’d said our goodbyes and wished each other a merry Christmas, Nick said, ‘I didn’t say anything . . . to the kids . . . they don’t know it’s a jail.’ A contemplative beat followed. ‘They must be stupid kids.’
The late December trip to Tumbarumba provided several other happy coincidences that helped in the lead up to Christmas. Lexie had been insistent we buy a Christmas present for Patrick when we walked past a small shop displaying an eclectic array of wares, including a circular rack of forest-green tracksuits. I couldn’t for the life of me think why anyone in Australia would want to buy one. But then I recalled that my father had once owned such a tracksuit and had rather unwisely chosen to wear it to visit a mate in the local prison. A wardrobe choice that caused a great deal of confusion for the guards on duty that day.
Though Patrick was only allowed to receive new and sealed socks and underwear from family members, Lexie was delighted by the serendipity of it.
Further along the street, outside the main supermarket in town, we saw the female CO aka the croissant and cracker Nazi.
‘Hello,’ the CO said, as I began descending into panic.
‘Hello,’ I managed, before remembering that I was in a public place. And, as far as I was aware, she had no jurisdiction. I could fill my trolley with all the pastries and crackers my heart desired.
‘Down this way for Christmas?’ Her question seemed friendly enough but our previous interactions made me wary.
‘We’re going to Grandma’s. She lives in Muswellbrook,’ Lexie said.
‘That sounds nice,’ the CO replied and I wished that Lexie hadn’t given anything away. ‘What would you like for Christmas?’ she asked Lexie, while Nick eyed the cans of drinks and lollies in the specials baskets outside the shop.
‘I would like a cat but Mum said I have to be realistic, so I’d like my own actual cooking utensils,’ Lexie said and I noticed a smile creep onto the CO’s face. Lexie had a way of charming people with her candour, often receiving comments and, on some occasions, gifts.
‘Would you like to be a chef when you grow up?’ the CO asked, as Lexie began the chin-rubbing thing she now did habitually. And at that moment I felt confident that the CO would finally see our core family values: hard work and education.
‘It’s not definite,’ Lexie said. ‘It’s a toss-up between a waitress on roller-skates and a cat.’
‘A cat?’ the CO said, laughing.
‘Yeah, they just laze around most of the day.’ Which struck me as ironic, because Lexie has never been interested in lazing around. She woke at the crack of dawn and went like an Energizer bunny all day until she collapsed into bed. And I had no idea where Lexie might have heard about waitresses on roller-skates.
‘Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out,’ said the CO, uncrossing her arms. ‘I hope you get those actual cooking utensils.’
‘You’re making the right decision,’ the CO said to me after Lexie had joined Nick to stare wistfully at the soft drink. ‘Prisons are no fun at Christmas and no place for families. I hope you can still manage to have a nice time,’ she said. And for the first time I saw her humanity. It can’t be easy being a correctional officer. Even in a minimum-security facility like Mannus I had witnessed some inmates and their families being aggressive to the guards.
‘Merry Christmas to you as well,’ I said.
Nick and Lexie still loved Christmas. The food, the presents, the extra people, were a great distraction. I was the one who found it difficult. Christmas is a time when most people set aside their petty squabbles and travel from all over the countryside to spend time with people they love. I was stronger than I’d been at the start of the year but being in the company of people I rarely saw, even though they were people I liked very much, only amplified Patrick’s absence.
THIRTY-ONE
Mannus Correctional Centre
27 December 2013
Beauty,
Glad you still had a good Christmas with your mum. Nick and Lex sounded upbeat. Thanks for organising the presents from me. Nick said he loved the blow-up boat and Lex the ‘actual real life’ cooking utensils and a fluffy toy with large eyes (cat?). As if she doesn’t have enough!!!
Couldn’t call again Christmas Day. 2+hours queue for phone and also called Mum. Guys who don’t usually use the phone wanted to make calls.
Glad you visited the week before Christmas. Overbooked. They turned many people away. Lots of guys lost it (smashed things). Andrews in kitchen made an effort to make a Christmas special (fish and chips) and I made chocolate mousse for my unit with buy up money. We aren’t allowed sugar but yoghurt and Nutella works well. Not as good as yours, though.
New inmate named Ravi. Singular talent for antagonising people. Started saying pro-Israeli things to the Lebanese. Went down like a hand grenade. Instant enemies.
Everyone has delusions about their own abilities but Ravi’s are astronomical. There’s a prison book club where inmates read and discuss books (you would love it!) Shantaram and Steve Jobs biography are like rites of passage in here. Glen (v. smart) inmate librarian is happy to order books for people. Only lets me borrow one at a time and only thin books (max 250 pages). Said I’m too slow.
For reasons obvious to no one except Ravi, he is convinced that he is cut from the same cloth as Steve Jobs.
Ravi: After finishing the book I can’t help but think that Steve Jobs and I are exactly the same.
Me: Oh yeah, how so?
Ravi: We are both visionaries. Both of us think outside the box, believe in taking risks and LSD.
Me: Steve Jobs created the most successful business on the planet and you’re . . . well . . . we’re in prison.
Ravi: I see your point but, apart from that, we’re identical.
Exactly the kind of insight you want in a CEO of a company. Inspired by Jobs, Ravi is starting his own social media company.
Ravi: It’s going to be bigger than Facebook, bigger than Twitter.
Me: Oh yeah, how’s that?
Ravi: It’s like Facebook but you can do groups.
Me: You can do groups
on Facebook.
Ravi: (disappointed) Really? Well, that’s what’s known in the business world as a setback. It’s still going to be huge. Net worth prediction: twenty billion dollars.
Me: Good for you.
Ravi: I’ll let you buy a share for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
Me: That’s an outstanding return but I’m afraid I have to decline.
Ravi: Are you telling me you don’t want to share in twenty billion dollars?
Me: I’m asking this purely for business purposes but don’t you still owe hundreds of thousands of dollars to a Colombian drug cartel?
Ravi: A trifle, a . . .
Me: And do I recall you saying that, at a low point, you snorted all the drugs you were meant to sell?
Ravi: That is in the past. I wouldn’t do that now, with your money. I can assure you, you have my word.
I’m not reassured.
We can order buy up food and cook in unit with others. Men often share, like a partnership. Ravi offered to be my partner. Made him three meals (bacon and eggs, hamburgers and stir-fry).
Me: So what are you making for the rest of the week?
Ravi: Oh, I don’t have any money for buy up.
Me: You do have money. Everyone has to work.
Ravi: Well, I need it to buy cigarettes.
Me: Well, I need to get something in exchange for the food I’m buying for you to eat.
Ravi: In exchange, you can have my friendship. (No deal.)
Jason Bird left during the week. Didn’t say goodbye to anyone. Didn’t want people to know. Something about his sentence brings out the worst in people. He didn’t want to get involved in any fights. I know some people may think he should stay in forever but I think he’s done his time and I’m glad I met him. I didn’t know who he was before but he made me a better person.
Hope I can still make a difference or a change, even a small one. But I’m running out of ideas. Have tried sharing buy up, visitors, teaching English??? Nothing seems to work.
I love you.
Paddy
P.S. Gave in to peer pressure and let Bella go with Tom.