by Lexie Ray
“You’ve always been mine,” Johnny said. “Always.”
We finished at the same time, my second orgasm less desperate and less life altering than the first, but no less welcome. My Johnny had come back to me. Life was good.
He withdrew from my body, leaving me feeling creamy and sticky, but I didn’t mind. It belonged to Johnny. It was all him. It was all I wanted.
“I’ve gotta go, Mama,” he said, his face sad as he pulled on his uniform again.
“Why?” I asked. “We have hours. We have years. Stay here with me.”
“You’re in prison,” he reminded me. “And I’m a cop. It can’t work.”
“We can make it work,” I protested, gathering my jumpsuit around myself. All I wanted to do was fall asleep in his arms. That’s all. Was that so illegal, so wrong?
“It’s not going to work, Mama,” he said, but it wasn’t Johnny French anymore. His face was morphing into someone I didn’t recognize, his body shrinking away from me.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“What’s happening?” the little boy in front of me asked. “Where are you going, Mama?”
Jesus. My own son. I hadn’t recognized my own son. It’d been long—too long. I didn’t want him to see me this drunk, but I couldn’t turn him away. I didn’t have any kind of choice.
“Come here, baby,” I said, holding my arms out, relieved that I wasn’t naked in front of my child. “Mama’s here. You come give your Mama a big hug. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You left before,” my sweet child said. “You left me.”
“Marshall, I left to make sure we had a good life,” I said. “I did it for you, baby.”
He shook his head. “I wanted to go with you, Mama,” he said. “Why didn’t you take me with you?”
“You couldn’t go where I was going, baby,” I said. Especially since where I was going ended up here, in prison. “I need you to understand that.”
“I want my Mama,” he said, that full bottom lip getting puffier and puffier as he pouted, the tears brimming in his eyes.
“No, no,” I said, enveloping him in my arms. “None of that. I don’t want any crying, you hear me? Not here. Not when Mama’s here. Mama’s here, baby boy. She’s here.”
I rocked my precious son in my arms, hugging him tightly. I’d left for him, tried to make a living so that we never had to worry about money again. The nightclub, everything, was for him. I wanted to make a good life for us both.
“You left me,” he sobbed. “You left me.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said. “I’m right here, baby. Look at Mama. I’m right here, son.”
But he wouldn’t stop crying. It broke my heart. He clung to me, but I gently extricated myself, holding him at arm’s length to get a look at his face.
It wasn’t my son.
“Cocoa?” I asked, in absolute disbelief. “Is it you?”
“It’s me, Mama,” she sobbed, hiccupping for breath, wiping the tears from her cheeks even as they continued to fall.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. Cocoa had been something of a lieutenant to me in the nightclub. She’d been my liaison between the business side of the nightclub and the personnel—my girls. She told them things I asked her to, and became like another mother to several of them. I trusted her—I used to trust her—with everything. Whenever we took on a new girl at the boarding house, it was Cocoa I always put her with. Cocoa was patient and kind and always showed the girls what they were supposed to be doing—if not by telling them outright, then by showing them through her example. She was one of the most talented, highest paid girls in the nightclub.
But then, she betrayed me.
“You betrayed me,” I said, scooting away from her. “You fucked me over, Cocoa. Why?”
“I didn’t,” she said sadly, shaking her head. “I’d never, Mama. It was you who betrayed me.”
“Not true,” I insisted. “That’s just not true.”
“You turned your back on me,” she said. “I needed your help, Mama, and you weren’t there for me. I needed you, and you turned me out.”
“You stole from me,” I said, choking on my rage and my grief. Cocoa had been like a daughter to me. The betrayal had been absolute.
“How is collecting some of my wages stealing from you?” she asked, putting her hands on her hips. “All I took from you was two grand. I bet that was what I made in a week, Mama. You knew how good I was. Why couldn’t you have helped me?”
I shook my head furiously. It didn’t make sense. Cocoa lied to me, she endangered the nightclub when she let some fool of a customer take photos of her while they were having sex. The customer’s wife found out and ended their marriage over it, and he returned to the nightclub, seeking revenge and exacting it on Cocoa. Cops had been called—cops I hadn’t known. It had put everything in danger.
“You could’ve cost me everything,” I said. “You could’ve brought the entire nightclub to its knees.”
“Where do you think the nightclub is right now?” she asked. “It’s over, Mama, and it wasn’t me. It was you. You.”
“Lies,” I said. “Pure lies. That nightclub was my life. I cared for all of you girls. I did.”
“No,” Cocoa said. Her face was dry, as if she’d never shed a tear. “The one and only thing you ever cared about ever since I first met you was money. Cash was your first and only love, Mama. We were just vehicles to get you toward what you wanted. And you’d toss us aside if you thought we were getting in your way. You tried to kill me just for asking what was rightfully mine.”
“I didn’t,” I protested. “I’d never. You—you’re lying.” Even as I tried to dispute Cocoa’s version of events, foggy memories surfaced—memories I’d tried to keep deep within myself. A gun in my hand. Cocoa running from me. The crash of glass. Cocoa jumping out of a window to get away. Rage. The chase. And absolute despair.
“Get out of here!” I screamed at her. “Get out of here!”
“You think about your sins, Mama,” Cocoa said, rising gracefully and walking toward the door to my cell. “You have plenty of time to remember each and every one, I think.”
“Out!” I screamed. “Out! I don’t want you here! Get out of here! Leave me the fuck alone! I didn’t ask for this.”
I sobbed myself to sleep. What had happened? Why was everyone angry with me? I’d done nothing wrong. I’d only tried to make a business, tried to make a life for myself so that I’d never have to worry again. I was a single mother, after all, one who’d only known how to do one thing to make money. I needed the nightclub as much as it needed me, and I’d fight to protect it.
When I woke up, I wasn’t in my cell. I wasn’t anywhere I recognized.
I was sprawled on a concrete floor, my head pounding, my mouth like cotton. When I tried to stand, my world was upended. My stomach heaved and I puked on the floor before I could manage to drag myself toward a toilet. There, I emptied the contents of my stomach and then some. I dry heaved for several long minutes before I got myself back under control, flopping back down on the floor, not caring that I was lying partially in my own vomit.
I was beyond caring. I was beyond help.
What had happened?
I was battling a wicked, life-ending hangover. That much was evident. The fluorescent light in the room was too much for my tender eyes to bear. I threw an arm over my eyes and tried to remember what had happened.
Drinking. I’d been drinking. I wouldn’t have a hangover, otherwise. But where had I found the alcohol? I was in prison, after all.
The contraband. Willow’s contraband had been a potent brew of homemade prison hooch. We’d imbibed the entire bag. Where was she? Where was I? What had happened?
I had other, fainter memories. I’d been thinking of my past, thinking about Johnny French. My son. The girls at the nightclub. It was hard to think of them all, especially when I was in this strange reality of prison. My past seemed less real all the time, and my present
even more far-fetched. How had I gotten here? What had I done?
I raised my arm and tried to fight the nausea as I peered around. I had to assess my surroundings. I could get this figured out if I tried.
There wasn’t a bed, just a toilet and a drain on the ground. And the door didn’t have bars—just a slot where I assumed they gave me food. I hoped I wouldn’t be getting any food. I didn’t think I could stomach it with this wretched hangover.
This was solitary, I realized. I was in solitary. I ignored the stab of anxiety in my gut—tried to, anyway. It was easy since I was so occupied with my nausea and my headache. If I was in solitary, that meant we’d been caught. Had the guards smelled the telltale stench of hooch? Had someone ratted us out? Had I done anything to compromise our little cellmate party?
I hoped Willow wasn’t too angry with me. We’d been building a good relationship, I thought. I couldn’t deal with my cellmate being shitty and angry with me. I didn’t want that drama in my life.
I slept on and off for a while. The floor was uncomfortable, but I was tired and desperate for the sleep. Sleep was the only thing that made the time pass, and the only treatment for a hangover was time. I had no idea of knowing how long I’d been in solitary. There were no windows. No clocks. Nothing to indicate any sort of passage of time. Hell. Maybe I’d just gotten here. Or maybe I’d been here for weeks.
I was awoken by the door opening. Pitt, my corrections officer, stepped in, looking down at me impassively. I’d managed to roll free of the vomit during one of my naps, but it was still covering the floor.
“This has to be a new record,” he said. “You were hardly in prison for twelve hours before you got placed in solitary. This isn’t a good way to start your stay with us, Wanda.”
“I understand,” I said. “But I don’t remember what happened.”
“No big surprise there,” Pitt said. “You drank enough hooch to kill an elephant.”
I had to bite my lip. Was this another insult at my weight? I tried to keep myself from rising to the bait.
“You had some kind of nervous breakdown or something,” he continued. “Screaming at things that weren’t there. Scared your cellmate half to death.”
“Where’s Willow?” I asked, concerned. I had a lot of explaining to do with her. She deserved to know that I was sorry for pissing on the party. I hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. How had everything gone so wrong?
“Your cellmate was transferred to a maximum security facility,” Pitt said.
I had to cover my mouth to hold in the gasp. “But why? She didn’t do anything wrong. She was just trying to be my friend. Is that what you do to people who brew a little hooch?”
“That wasn’t the first time by far,” Pitt said. “That was the third time we’ve actually caught her at it, though we’re sure there’ve been plenty of other times that she’s had a successful launch party for her hooch. We’re trying to send a message to the rest of the inmates that alcoholic contraband isn’t going to be tolerated. It’s a huge problem.”
That wasn’t good news for me. As shitty as I felt, I was already looking forward to the next session. If I were back at the nightclub, waking up like this, I’d already be nipping on a bottle of whiskey to take the edge off. Life was very different now.
“How are you feeling?” Pitt asked, his face showing just a trace of concern.
I sat up and winced. “Like I’ve had the last wild night for a long time.”
“You’ve got that right,” he said. “Do you have a problem with alcohol, Wanda?”
“No,” I said defensively, immediately. “No, of course not.”
“The reason I’m asking is that when they finally got you down to solitary last night, the guards had the medic on staff take a look at you,” Pitt said, crossing his arms. “They say that the way you reacted—the probable hallucinations, the violence—that you’d been abusing alcohol for a long time.”
That made me frown. “I’ve always enjoyed a drink,” I said. “But it’s not a problem. I’m not abusing anything.”
Pitt looked at me without saying anything for a few moments.
“I feel bad for you,” he said finally. “I know that you haven’t had any prior convictions. I know this is your first time in prison. And with a woman at your age, that’s a difficult thing, to be uprooted from your life and put here. You have rules to follow, Wanda. You need to figure that out.”
“I apologize,” I said. “I realize that I’ve gotten off to a terrible start here.”
“Use this time wisely,” Pitt said. “Prison is meant as a punishment, but you can also use it as an opportunity to reshape your life. There are resources here. Services. Training. Programs. You can leave prison with a new plan.”
“Thank you,” I said, trying to take the advice to heart. Pitt wasn’t the first person who had told me this. I needed to try to make the best of my time here. I knew that.
“Now,” Pitt said. “Are you ready to get back out to the general population? You’ve been down here for two days.”
“Two days?” I repeated incredulously. “What was I doing?”
“Sleeping, mostly,” he said. “You refused food.”
I shook my head at this. Why didn’t I have any memory of this? It was utterly troubling. I tried to think back, tried to remember if that slot on the door had ever opened, but I couldn’t remember anything. Had the hooch really gotten to me that bad? Or was I dealing with something different?
I got to my feet and followed Pitt out. I smelled awful, and there was dried vomit in my hair. I was a goddamn mess. Was this rock bottom or did I have farther to fall before I could start clawing my way back up?
Farther, it turns out. Much farther.
Chapter Three
Pitt allowed me to get my things from my old cell before he walked me to my new one.
“Marlee Fitz, this is your new cellmate,” he said, holding his arm out at me—vomit-smeared, hungover me. “Wanda Dupree.”
“Howdy,” Marlee said, looking up from her book. “Looks like you could use a shower.”
And that’s how I had my first experience with prison hygiene facilities. There were curtains separating each shower stall, which was more than I expected. And the hot water made me feel better, banishing the chunks of vomit and lingering hangover.
“That’s better,” Marlee greeted me when I got back to the room, squeaky clean and in a fresh jumpsuit.
“I agree,” I said, hanging my towel from the edge of my new bed. My memory pricked at me, as though I needed to say something. I looked at Marlee, sure that she held the answer to whatever was bothering me. She was pretty—a strawberry blonde, freckles spread across her cheeks. Her eyes were a clear, deep brown.
“Something on your mind?” Marlee asked.
“Yes, I just can’t quite remember, sugar,” I said. “Oh—are you the Marlee from the cafeteria? The one who’s in charge of the kitchen?”
“The one and same,” she said easily.
“That’s wonderful,” I said. “I had dinner last night—my first meal here—and I just wanted to say how delicious is was. You really know your way around the kitchen.”
“Well, thank you,” Marlee said, beaming. “I do love hearing from happy customers.”
“How long have you been in charge of the kitchen?” I asked her.
“Nearly since I’ve been here,” she said, “so that’ll put it at about five years now.”
“Five years,” I said wonderingly. “That’s a long time?”
“I bet you’re wondering what I did to deserve to be here five years,” Marlee said, smiling.
“No,” I said quickly. “It’s just impressive that you’ve been in charge of the kitchen that whole time. You must be doing something right, sugar.”
She waved my explanation away. “It’s all right. I don’t mind. I’m doing hard time for fraud. I’d steal my boyfriends’ credit cards, run up the limits, and disappear. And I had lots of boyfriends.”
I laughed. She looked like she did—Marlee was very pretty. “What made you do it?”
She shrugged. “What made me do anything back then? Alcohol. I hated men, too. I was raped at an impressionable age. I was afraid of men for a long time, but then I figured I just needed to adjust my attitude. Recognize that I could take advantage of them just as easily as I’d been taken advantage of. Alcohol helped mask my fear, helped give me the courage to rob those poor men blind.”
“Jesus, sugar,” I said, wide eyed. “I’m sorry to hear all that.”
“Don’t be,” Marlee said. “I’m not. Sure, I could’ve done without the shittier things that happened along the road. But prison has been the best thing that has ever happened to me. Really.”
I sat down on my bed and took a closer look at my new cell. Just like Willow, Marlee had amassed possessions. She had books, photographs, stationary sets, and snacks.
“You have a lot of stuff, sugar,” I said wistfully. “You have somebody on the outside?”
“A few admirers,” she laughed. “I mean, Christ, I took them for all they had, but there are three who still think they love me. It’s fucking bizarre. And the kitchen work helps. You don’t earn a lot, but over time, you earn enough to get what you need from the commissary.”
“I’m looking forward to working,” I said. “I don’t have anyone on the outside.”
“Do you have everything you need?” Marlee asked. “I can help you get things from the commissary if there’s something you don’t have.”
Unless you could get alcohol from the commissary, I could do without until I started earning wages.
“That’s all right,” I said. “I can manage until I start work. You don’t have to do anything.”
“Smart lady,” Marlee said, smiling. “Don’t be beholden to anyone. Every favor carries a price.”
I was taken aback. “And what was your price going to be?”
“I was going to make you go to a meeting with me,” she said. “Whether you wanted to or not. I’m still supposed to get you to go to a meeting, but now I don’t have any leverage.”