by Richard Ford
The deputy said he needed to see what was in our “pokes,” which was a word my father sometimes used. We showed him our sacks. He laughed and said it was nice of us to bring these articles, but our parents didn’t need them and jail rules forbid gifts. He’d keep them and we could take them back home. He was a heavy, moon-faced man who filled out his brown uniform. He had a severe dipping limp that made him have to reach and touch his leg above his knee at every step. Each time he did it his leg made a soft, metal click sound. I assumed his leg was wood. A wound from the war. I knew about that. He could only be a sheriff if he agreed to be the jailer. I believed we might see Bishop and the other, red-faced policeman who’d arrested our parents, that they’d recognize us and talk to us. But they weren’t in sight, which made the experience of being there even stranger.
Once the jailer—who didn’t tell us his name—had taken our sacks and made us pull out our pockets and show inside our shoes, he went back in his office and came out with a big metal key. With another smaller key, he unlocked the door he’d come out of and that had CELL BLOCK written on it and led us back through. Beyond the metal door the floor was painted pale yellow and felt much harder and colder through my shoes than our floor at home. My shoe soles seemed to stick to it. This was how anyone locked up inside felt—that jail existed for the opposite reason from why your home existed.
While we were walking to the jail, Berner and I had talked about what we would say to our parents. But once we were inside, and the barred door behind the deputy’s desk was unlocked using the big metal key, we didn’t talk. Berner cleared her throat several times and licked her lips. She was wishing, I thought, that she hadn’t come.
Beyond the first barred door was a space just big enough for the three of us to stand in, then another barred door, which made breaking out impossible. Inside, it smelled like the same piney disinfectant but with food odors and maybe urine, like the boys’ room in school. The door-opening noise echoed off the concrete. A black hose lay coiled below a faucet on the long wall, and the floor, which wasn’t painted there, was damp and shiny.
No one was visible down the row of cells. A man’s voice—not my father’s—was speaking on a telephone somewhere. Outside the high barred windows across from the cells, a basketball was being dribbled and feet were scuffling. Someone—a man—laughed, and the ball bounced off a metal backboard just like in the park where Rudy and I had played earlier in the summer. Except for the watery green light filtering from outside, the only light came from bulbs high in the concrete ceiling and protected by wire baskets that barely let any light reach the floor. It was like a shadowy cave to be there. I thought it was exhilarating, although the feeling was lessened by our parents being inside.
“Not many guests with us, today,” the crippled deputy said as he let us through the second barred door and locked it back. He wasn’t wearing a pistol. “They check out early on Monday. They’ve had enough of our hospitality. We generally see them again, though.” He was cheerful. A tiny red transistor radio had been propped up on his desk, and I could hear Elvis Presley singing at a low volume. “We’re paying special attention to your mom in here,” the deputy said. “Your dad, of course, he’s a real pistol.” He began leading us down the concrete corridor, which shone in the green light and shadows. The first cells we passed were empty and dark. “We don’t expect to have your folks in here with us too long,” he said, his leg clicking and being hauled along. He was wearing a hearing aid that filled his left ear. “They’re off to North Dakota Wednesday or Thursday.”
Then unexpectedly we were in front of an occupied cell, and there our father was, seated in the partial dark on a metal cot with a bare mattress that had its white ticking falling out in wads on the concrete. Something made me think he’d cut it open himself.
“You two kids shouldn’t be here,” our father said loudly, as if he knew we were coming. He stood up off his cot. I couldn’t see him very well—his face, especially—though I saw him lick his lips as if they were dry. His eyes were wider open than usual. Berner had kept on walking and hadn’t seen him. But when she heard his voice she said, “Oh, I’m sorry,” and stopped and she saw him, too.
“I just trusted the government too much. That’s my big problem,” he said, as if he’d been saying this before to someone else. He didn’t move closer to the bars. I didn’t know what he meant. His face contained a worried, exhausted expression, and he looked thinner, though it had only been a day since we were all at home. His eyes were reddened and darting around the way they did when he was trying to find someone to please. His voice sounded more southern than it had. “I never gave a thought to killing anyone, if there was ever a consideration about that,” he said. “Though I could’ve.” He looked at us, then sat back down on his cot and lightly jammed his fists together between his knees, as if he was exhibiting patience. He was dressed as he’d been when the police came. Jeans and his white shirt. His snakeskin belt had been taken away and so had his boots. He was just in his dirty sock feet. His hair wasn’t combed and he hadn’t shaved and his skin looked gray—exactly like his picture in the newspaper.
A feeling of calm came over me then. Not what you’d expect. I felt safe with him where he was. I intended to ask him about the money. Where it came from.
“We brought you toilet articles, but they won’t let us give them to you,” Berner said in an awkward, higher-pitched voice than usual. She had her hands behind her. She didn’t want to touch the bars.
“I already have a toilet in here.” Our father looked to the side of where he sat, at a lid-less commode, which was foul looking and smelling. He rubbed one wrist, then rubbed his other one and licked his lips again as if he didn’t know he was doing it. He rubbed his cheeks with his palms and squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them.
“When are they going to let you out?” I said. I was thinking Berner had said they were liars and could now remember other things. North Dakota. His blue flight suit.
“What is it, son?” He smiled a weak smile up at me.
“When are they going to let you come home?” I said loudly.
“Probably someday,” he said. He didn’t seem interested in it. He rubbed his hand through his hair the way he’d done Saturday in the car. “Don’t get all bothered around about this. Aren’t you about ready to go to school?”
“Yes, we are,” I said. It was if he was under the impression he’d been in jail longer than he had. He’d known before when our school was starting.
“Did you and Berner play chess together?” He hadn’t spoken to her yet.
“Where’s Mother?” she said abruptly. We’d thought they’d be in the same jail cell. Then she said, “Did you rob a bank?”
“She’s somewhere in here.” Our father motioned his thumb toward his cell wall, as if our mother was behind it. “She’s not speaking to me,” he said. “I don’t blame her.” He shook his head. “I didn’t hold up my end very well. I hope this isn’t anything that seems ordinary to you two.” He didn’t answer Berner’s question about robbing a bank. I wanted him to, because I remembered him saying, years before, “I could give it a try.”
“It doesn’t,” Berner said.
He smiled at us out of the shadowy light. You’d think if you visited your father in jail you’d have many things to say to him. Berner had planned to ask if they needed anything, and if we should call someone, and who that would be. His family? A lawyer? Our mother’s school? Almost all the ways I expected to feel weren’t the ways I felt. Jail put a stop to everything—which was what it was intended to do.
“We oughta step on down and see your mother now,” the deputy said behind us. His radio was still playing at the end of the row of cells. He saw we didn’t have more to say and didn’t want to embarrass anyone. Someone had begun talking outside the high barred windows. The basketball bounced once and stopped. “There’s that satellite wa-a-a-y, way up there,” a man’s voice said. “Who said?” someone answered. Then the ball bounced again.
“Jail’s not a place for you children to come,” our father said again, looking up at us in a way that seemed worried. A vein in his forehead was visible.
“That’s right,” the deputy put in. “But they love you.”
“I know they do. I love them,” he said, as if we weren’t there.
“Do you want us to call someone?” Berner said.
My father shook his head. “Let’s wait on that,” he said. “I’m talking to a lawyer. We have to go to North Dakota pretty soon.”
Berner didn’t say anything and neither did I. I still had his high school ring on my thumb. I put that hand behind me, so we wouldn’t talk about it.
“I wish I had some ways to make you children happy now.” Our father clasped his hands together and squeezed them. “What good can I do in here?”
“They know that, Bev,” the deputy said. I should’ve asked about the money right then, but I forgot.
A telephone rang, its shrill noise echoed down the row of cells. Berner and I stood there a few more seconds. We didn’t know what else we were supposed to say. We were just supposed to come.
The deputy put a hand on my arm and his other one on Berner’s and moved us away from where we were standing. He knew how everything worked.
“Good-bye,” Berner said.
“All right,” my father said. He did not stand up.
“Good-bye,” I said.
“All right, Dell. Son,” he said. He didn’t answer about the bank.
Chapter 37
Our mother’s cell was at the far end of the row of unlit cells and wasn’t different from our father’s, except a white metal sign had been hung on the bars with a thin metal chain. This sign said SUICIDE, painted in red block letters. On the walk down, the deputy told us there were no special facilities for “the girls.” The best the county could offer was some privacy.
Our mother was seated on a cot like the one in our father’s cell, but it wasn’t torn open with wads falling out. She was beside another woman, talking quietly. Another cot was there. The commode wasn’t stained and filthy like my father’s.
“Here’s your children to visit you, Neeva,” the deputy said in an optimistic voice. He urged us forward, then stood back against the wall so we could be almost alone with her. “Go ahead,” he said. “She’s glad to see you.”
“Oh, dear,” my mother said and stood up right away. She had her glasses in her hand. She fitted them on as she came to the bars. She looked small. Her skin was blotched. The tip of her nose was red. She was wearing white tennis shoes without laces and a loose dark-green dress buttoned up the front with white buttons and no belt. She didn’t seem to have any breasts underneath. Behind her glasses her eyes were wide and peering. She smiled at us, as if we looked strange to her. My eyes naturally went to the SUICIDE sign. It had to do with the other woman, is what I believed. “How did you know to come here?” she said. “I said to wait for Mildred.”
“We didn’t know where else to go. We just came,” Berner said. “We saw Dad. He didn’t say much.”
Our mother put her hands out through the bars. I hadn’t said hello yet, but I held her right one and Berner held her left. She squeezed both our hands. She seemed even more tired than when she’d talked to me in my room the night before last. I noticed she’d taken off her wedding ring, which startled me. The other woman was wearing the same green dress and tennis shoes. She was tall and heavy-set. Even with her sitting down you could see that. She got up off the cot where she’d been sitting and lay down on the other one and turned her face to the wall. She groaned when she got settled.
“We brought you some toilet articles, but they won’t let you have them,” Berner said. “We thought you’d be together with Dad.”
“Okay,” our mother said, still holding our hands and looking at us, smiling. She wasn’t talking very loud. “I feel very light in here. Isn’t that strange?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. Her voice sounded normal, as if she could’ve come right out and walked around and talked to us. It was a greater shock seeing her—more than it had been to see our father, who didn’t seem out of place in jail. I felt unincluded, though, and not light about things. I wondered where her wedding ring was, but didn’t want to ask.
“When are you going to get out?” Berner said authoritatively. She was crying and trying not to cry.
“I must’ve had a little let-down,” our mother said. “My friend and I were just talking about that.” She looked around to the big woman with her face turned to the wall and breathing deeply, one foot on top of the other. “I tried to call you two,” she said. “I only had one call they’d let me make. You didn’t answer. I guess you were out someplace.” She blinked at us behind her spectacles. A sweat smell came off of her. It was the smell she always had. The starchy-clean smell of her jail dress was also in the air.
“What’s supposed to happen to us now?” Berner said, tears draining onto her cheeks, her mouth pressed closed, her chin quivering. Outside the jail, cars were moving on the street. A car horn sounded. Outside was so close to where we were. I didn’t want Berner to be crying. It wasn’t helping anything.
“Where are we going?” I said. I was thinking about Miss Remlinger, who was coming to our house to get us.
“You’ll see. It’ll be a surprise. It’ll be wonderful.” Our mother smiled through the bars and nodded. “I’m saving you two. Mildred’s coming. I’m surprised she hasn’t already.”
A young man in a tan suit and carrying a briefcase entered through the two sets of barred doors, let in by another deputy. He came in our direction but stopped at our father’s cell. One of my father’s hands extended out, and the man grabbed it and shook it. My father laughed and said, “O-kay, o-kay.” Seeing this man talking to my father made me realize my parents had less to do with each other now. This may have been why my mother felt light. Something had left her. A weight.
“Don’t you think you children should go home?” our mother said through the bars. A beam of late-morning sunlight penetrated down into her cell. She let go of our hands and smiled. We hadn’t been there two minutes. We hadn’t said anything that made any difference. I don’t know what we expected.
“Don’t you love us?” Berner said, fighting her tears. I looked at Berner and took her hand. She seemed desperate about everything.
“Of course I do,” our mother said. “That oughtn’t worry you. You can rely on that.” She reached one small hand up to touch Berner’s face, but Berner didn’t move closer. Our mother left her hand there in the air for a moment.
“Are you going to commit suicide?” I said. The red sign was right there. I couldn’t ignore it. I’d never said that word before saying it to my mother.
“Of course not.” She shook her head. She looked up at the windows behind us. This was a lie. She did do it in the North Dakota State Penitentiary and probably had already made mention of it in the jail that day. “I told you,” she said. “I had some weak feelings before.”
The man in the tan suit, who’d been speaking to our father, said, “Well, all right. You just sit tight here. I’ll have a word with your better half now.” His briefcase snapped shut. He’d been exhibiting some papers and having our father sign them.
“She’s got a federal case against me.” My father’s voice echoed down the line of cells.
“I’ll bet she does. A lot of people do.” The young man laughed and began walking toward us, his boots hitting sharp knocks on the concrete.
The deputy stepped close to Berner and me from behind and said, “This is your parents’ lawyer now, kids. We better let him get a word with your mom in private. Come back and see them later. I’ll let you in.”
Berner looked at the man approaching and instantly stopped crying. Our mother smiled at the two of us. Tears were in her eyes. I saw that.
“I’ve decided I’m going to write something.” She nodded at me as if this was news I’d like.
“What is it?” I asked. The deputy
put his hand on my shoulder. He was pulling me away.
“I’m not sure what it’ll be yet,” she said. “It’ll be a tragic-comedy, whatever it is. You’ll have to tell me what you think. You’re a smart boy.”
“Did you rob a bank?” Berner said. Our mother didn’t acknowledge this. The deputy moved Berner and me away from her cell so she could have her words with the lawyer. She wouldn’t be there much longer. I never saw her again, though I didn’t know I wouldn’t at the time. I would’ve said more than I did say if I’d known that. I was sorry Berner asked her about the bank, since it had embarrassed her.
* * *
On our way out, we again passed the cell where our father was. He was lying on his busted cot in his sock feet, holding a sheaf of papers, reading. We must’ve crossed his light because he turned, half sat up and gaped at us. “Okay?” he said and flapped the papers toward us. “Did you get to see your mother?” The deputy kept us moving along.
I said, “Yes, sir,” as we passed his cell door.
“That’s good then. I know it made her happy,” he said. “Did you tell her you loved her?”
I hadn’t said that, but I should’ve.
“We did,” Berner said.
“There you go,” he said.
That was all we had time to say. I’ve thought many times, since I never saw him again either, that it was better than saying what was true.
Chapter 38
It’s a good measure of how insignificant we were, and of the kind of place Great Falls was, that no one came to see about us, or to get us and transport us to someplace safe. No juvenile authorities. No police. No guardians to take responsibility for our welfare. No one ever searched the house while I was there. And when no one does that—notices you—then people and things quickly get forgotten and drift away. Which is what we did. My father was wrong about many things; but about Great Falls he wasn’t. People there didn’t want to know us. They were willing to let us disappear if we would.