by Lee Taylor
Richard Speck met us on the stairs that night as we went running up them all full of giggles and dreams. We tried to turn away from him, but he came after us, waving his gun and shouting, “You two come here. Come here.” Mary Ann put up a fight until he crushed her left eye with his knife and stabbed her three times. I fought back and tried to get him off of her, but he turned and thrust his knife into my chest, then my stomach, my shoulders, and my hands as I tried to stop him. Somehow, after eighteen incursions I was still alive, so Richard Franklin Speck calmly strangled me with a white silk stocking then left me there, on the stairs, lying next to my very best friend, Mary Ann.
Fifteen
September 10, 1987
When I finally get back to F-house everyone is standing around. Like they’re on break, but can’t leave the building. I spot Mike and walk over to him. Strange, but it’s almost as if I’m in a fog. Need to sit down. To think. To understand what just happened.
“Where’ve you been? It’s been a rotten day, and it’s not even over yet,” Mike says once I’m standing in front of him.
“Been busy, why?”
“Which version do you want?”
“As short as possible.”
Mike and I stand in the midst of about twenty-five of our extras. They’re staring at us.
Mike motions for us to walk to a more private place a few feet away.
“I almost lost it today,” he says.
“You?”
“Even Richie Cunningham had his breaking point. The inmates suddenly came up with a bad case of who-gives-a-shit and Vivian’s been running on some new intense RPM. She’s really getting to me. I’m in need of some of your sarcasm to give me balance.”
“Sorry, fresh out.” I want to tell him what’s going on with the Captain. “We need to talk. Something happened and I—”
His face suddenly goes pale. “So it was you. Damn it, Carly. There was a rumor buzzing around here that it was you, but I dismissed it.” He gives me a sarcastic chuckle. “I should have known better. Should have seen it coming. Once again I’m the pathetic chump.”
My mind whirls with scenarios. “What? How could you possibly know? I just—”
“The whole prison knows what happened. You can’t hide something like that in this place. Why would you want to screw around with one of these guys?” He walks away from me. I’m confused. How could everybody know? That’s impossible. The Captain would never take the risk.
I follow right behind him. Obviously there’s some kind of miscommunication going on here. “Everybody knows what?”
Mike spins around, irritation staining his face.
“Don’t play dumb with me. I know you too well. Know what all that booze has done to you. Are you drunk now and I just can’t tell anymore?”
“No, I’m not drunk. What the hell are you talking about?”
His eyes narrow and his voice gets as sharp as a blade. “Because of your little episode this morning with Crew Cut down in the showers the whole shoot may be canceled. Did you take our reputation, my reputation into consideration while you were getting it on this morning? Or was it too exciting to think about anybody else?”
I stand there in silence while Mike continues to stare at me. He’s still shaking from his outburst. A mixture of anger and contempt on his face, waiting for my response. His eyes are moist from his own fury, from his own thoughts, his own misconceptions.
I stare back at him in disbelief. My knees go weak. I want to lash out at him, but I don’t have the strength to argue. Instead, I tilt my head and smile. “Yep. Best lay I ever had. Better than you in your finest hour. Too bad the shoot’s in jeopardy. I was looking forward to my daily fuck.”
Mike doesn’t respond and I can’t tell if he’s pissed or confused. At this point I don’t care. All I can think of is getting out of the place as fast as I can. Breathe in some clean air, away from the noise, from the accusations. “I’m taking the car,” I tell him. “You’ll have to catch a ride from somebody else.” I hold out my hand for the key.
He hands me the key, clears his throat and tries to regain his self-composure. I can tell he knows he’s made a huge mistake. “Carly, I—”
“Let’s just drop it.”
As I turn to leave, he says, “The crew is going over to Bud’s Place to wait for word from the warden. One of the producers is supposed to stop by and let us know what to do next.”
I nod and walk away.
When I’m finally on the other side of the wall, I somehow feel as if I’ve been released after years of incarceration. The feeling is overwhelming causing my eyes to water. The pressure inside me bursts through my veins causing my head to pound and my hands to shake.
I stop just outside the Visitor’s Center to light a cigarette hoping for some relief. It just gets worse.
There’s no way out. It’s too late for you, Carly.
So now I’m the prison whore. And Mike believed it, or at least has some doubt, that’s the kicker. He’s just like every other man. They get you to trust them and then they turn on you, or kill you, whichever they’re into. Maybe killing’s better. It’s over in an instant. No questions. No wondering what you did wrong when they become distant or move onto somebody else. No broken hearts. Why should the Captain be any different? What he says: to show the world, to change things. No man ever does anything for a noble cause. Not anymore. Not now.
Trust him, Carly. You have to trust him.
I slide into my car and take a drink from the flask of JD I keep in the glove compartment. Can’t believe all that has happened today. The talk with the Captain, with Speck and then Mike’s accusation. In some twisted way Mike was right. I did put the entire shoot in jeopardy and on some level, I was also fucked—the way Speck looked at me—what was that all about?
I can’t believe I was civil to him. As if he were human. That close. That look. Makes my skin crawl. How can I meet him again? He knows now. Knows I’m weak. Just a woman. A scared woman. Does he remember me? Remember that he once wanted a kiss? Or was that just a kid’s game?
Captain Bob walks past my car and never notices that I’m inside. He continues on to a ‘76 or ‘77 blue Camaro two rows in front of me, gets in and starts to drive away. Without even thinking about it, I follow.
We drive into Joliet, a river town with mostly blue-collar workers. Many of them work at the prison. A clean, neat town where bungalows line the streets and lawns are mowed each weekend.
I remember the last time I was in this city, a tenth-grade field trip with Sister Latitia and Sister Martha. Dad convinced me to go. Said it would be good for me, that I might learn something about a great man, Abraham Lincoln. So I went. Seventy-two teenage Catholic girls packed into a bus with two nuns, one guitar, and a bus driver named Pedro who burst into song whenever we got too loud. A true tenor.
Joliet was just a city on our way to Springfield and New Salem, Lincoln’s hometown. We walked through log cabins and listened to various lectures about Lincoln from people dressed in period clothing. I loved it and spent my lunch money on a book about President Lincoln. Couldn’t wait to show Dad and tell him all about the day. Never had so much fun while I was learning something.
I flew up our front stairs, all spun-out from the day and a neighbor met me. She said, “Your father has suffered a heart attack.” Never forgot those words, “has suffered a heart attack.” Made my insides boil. My mother and I spent the entire night at the hospital, pacing mostly, praying for a miracle, staring at my father’s irregular heartbeat on the heart monitor, and catching a few catnaps on hardback chairs in the waiting room. I didn’t get the chance to show my father the book on Lincoln, or tell him how happy I was he’d convinced me to go because the next morning he died from a second heart attack.
I threw the Lincoln book in the trash in his room.
The Captain pulls into a driveway of a small, white bungalow. Two little girls, about ten and twelve with dark hair, bright-colored shorts and shirts, run out to meet him, thri
lled that he’s home. Like he’s been away on a long trip. A young boy, of the same age group, rounds the corner on a skateboard and joins the celebration of Daddy’s return. He leans over and gives each one a bear hug. They all talk with that excited chatter kids have when they want a parent’s attention. I can’t hear exactly what they’re saying but I can hear the tone of their voices. High-pitched innocence. One of the girls takes her dad’s hat, the other his lunchbox. The boy takes his dad’s hand. Reminds me of an episode of Father Knows Best whenever Robert Young came home. Wonder which of the girls is Princess?
After a while the screen door opens on the small front porch and a woman in a wheelchair rolls out. Somehow she doesn’t fit the image. I don’t think Jane Wyatt was ever chair-bound. This wife serves as a reminder of reality. Always there just beneath the surface, waiting to squeeze up through the euphoria. Teaching the world a lesson.
The kids and dad slowly make their way up the six front steps to where mom waits with a different kind of enthusiasm for this man’s return. More of a relief that her husband is home for the night. I’ve seen that happiness before in my mother’s eyes every time my father walked through our front door. Captain Bob leans over in the midst of his children’s chaos and says something to his woman and then kisses her gently on the lips. They smile and hesitate for a moment, looking at each other, rekindling that fire that obviously has never gone out. In my mind I can picture them on the dance floor at Bud’s. The two of them, kissing and whispering. Laughing, just like Dottie said. He’d have to hold her up now, tight in his arms to twirl her around, but I bet a man like that would do it. A man like that would do anything for his woman. A man like that…
I can’t watch anymore. I start up my car, push in the lighter and drive away.
Have to talk to Mike.
Sixteen
July 12, 1966
My mother was in a good mood when I finally returned home from Sharon’s cousin’s house (probably from watching Green Acres, her favorite TV show) and after a little whining on my part, she agreed to let me sleep over at Sharon’s one more night. Perhaps a post-birthday gift.
“About this weekend,” she said while she served up dinner, “why don’t we go uptown and get that Mary Quant dress you wanted for your Beatles concert. And some textured stockings and a pair of those cute little T-strap shoes you like so much. How’s that?”
“What a gas! Wait until I tell Lisa and Sharon. They’ll be so jealous. Thanks, Mom,” I squealed and hugged her so tight I couldn’t breathe.
“You got a card from your Aunt Betty,” Mom said as she handed me the small square envelope.
Aunt Betty was my Grandma Rockett’s sister. She lived on the North Side. We didn’t see her much since Dad’s hours changed and he worked weekends, but she never forgot me. Every birthday and holiday she sent me a card with five dollars and a pink hankie.
“Great, now I’ll have money for stuff,” I said as I ripped open the cream-colored envelope.
When I opened the tiny card, sure enough there was my five dollars tucked inside a pink lace hankie. I had a drawer full of pink lace hankies and old piano sheet music that she kept sending me even though I couldn’t play one note.
Mom and I didn’t sit and chat for very long since I had to get back to Sharon’s. There was a Beatles radio special on WLS and I didn’t want to miss it. I gobbled down some instant mashed potatoes and part of a dry pork chop then got up to leave when she started in on warnings and promises.
“It’s supposed to rain again tonight. I don’t want you sleeping out in that tent if it does. Promise me you’ll sleep inside the house tonight. Besides, it’s too dangerous out there all night. Your dad doesn’t want you sleeping outside anymore. Promise me, or you can’t sleep over.”
Now, there were promises and then there were promises. Usually, when my mother made me promise, I would find a way to keep it and still do what I wanted, but this was a tough one.
“I promise, Mom.”
“You promise what?” Apparently, Mom was catching on to my act.
“I promise that I won’t sleep out in the tent tonight in a rainstorm.”
“Thank you. You can go now,” she said. I kissed her good-bye, grabbed a change of clothes, stuffed them in my green purse and ran out the front door.
By the time I got to Sharon’s, she and Lisa were already in the tent setting up our radio and our blankets for the night. It was somewhere around eight o’clock because the Beatles radio special was just about to start.
“Where were you? They just interviewed Ringo and you missed it,” Sharon taunted.
“But it’s not even time yet,” I shot back.
“Yeah, and you missed Wolf, too. Lisa talked to him.”
“What?”
“Yep,” Lisa said. “And he’s agreed to meet us later to take our letters to the Beatles. He knows them personally. He and John’s father were on a ship once. He knows John’s home address and he’s going to take our letters and send them directly to John’s house.”
“Are you telling the truth?” I couldn’t believe that she had actually spoken to him and all our fantasies about this sailor had been true.
“It’s a sin to lie,” Lisa warned.
“That never stopped you before,” I countered.
“Just for that, maybe I won’t give him your letter.” Lisa gave me a smug little smile. “Besides, maybe three letters are too many for him to deal with. Two letters are easier to tuck into a suitcase.”
“I’m sorry. What time are we supposed to meet him and where?”
“About midnight, right out front,” Sharon said with obvious sarcasm. “That is if you’re not too chicken to meet with him. He’s got a crush on you. Said he’s been watching you and he wants to meet you. We told him we didn’t know if that was possible because you probably wouldn’t even show up tonight.”
“What do you mean? I’m here! I’ll meet him.” I was almost yelling now.
“You say that now, but I bet when it’s time, you won’t go near him,” Sharon said.
“And everything depends on you,” Lisa stated.
“What?”
“Well,” Lisa continued, “he said he won’t deliver the letters unless you give him a kiss and I told him that you never even kissed a boy and he said all the better.”
Sharon turned up the radio just as Help screamed over the airwaves. Never before had I identified so closely with a song. The lads were singing just for me.
After that, the conversation died. We became Beatles worshipers again, crying over the radio interviews with Paul, John, George and Ringo. We never once discussed Wolf. Matter-of-fact, they forgot all about him, which was a good thing, because I sure wasn’t about to give some strange man, with a pitted face and tattoos on his arms, a kiss. Even if he did have John Lennon’s home address.
The night wore on while we wrote our love letters and slipped in and out of our stories: Paul and Sharon riding horses with the Queen, John and Lisa holding a sit-in with the press over John’s “more popular than Jesus” statement, and Ringo and I relaxing at the Shore.
The rain started sometime around eleven. Unfortunately, I remembered my promise. I caught Sharon’s mom just before she went to bed and told her about it. She reluctantly ordered us to take down the tent and to bring it, and ourselves, inside. Her mom didn’t like all three of us sleeping in the house because we inevitably woke up her husband with our giggles, but she didn’t like to go against the wishes of one of our parents either, so she made an exception. However, she wanted the tent to be brought in for some reason. Probably our punishment for forcing her to take us inside.
Sharon’s mom went on to bed and Sharon decided, after a brief unsuccessful attempt at pulling up one of the stakes, that the tent would have to wait until morning. She figured we would get up really early, before her mom, and take it down then. We all agreed as we quietly made our way through the house, past her parents’ bedroom and up the stairs to Sharon’s cozy attic hideaway.
Seventeen
September 10, 1987
Bud’s Place pulsates with more activity than it’s probably seen in years. Bikers, prison employees and most of the crew all seem to be spinning in some high frequency. All plugged into the same outlet, waiting for the verdict, whether the movie will be a go or a go home. A layer of tobacco smoke mingles with the distinctive scent of pot making the whole place appear surreal. Like it’s the early seventies and I just walked into a party down on Rush Street. I try to look for Mike in this mixed bag, but it’s impossible. The jukebox rocks to Cyndi Lauper’s Girls Just Want to Have Fun and I’m thinking of the irony of it all.
I order a drink from a young guy behind the bar who looks like he’s overwhelmed. I throw him a five for a tip and he throws back a smile. Gives us both a momentary charge.
Finally, I spot Mike sulking in a back booth, staring at his glass of milk. He sits with some of the crew—the blonde from the other day and two guys in suits.
I push my way through, giving a nod and a grin as I go.
“What the hell is all this?” I ask Mike when I finally reach him and slide in tight. Everybody else at the table seems to be having their own conversation. They ignore me.
He shouts, “We’re still waiting for the warden’s decision.”
“I thought that would be resolved by now,” I yell back.
He leans in close, “Can you hear me, Carly?”
I nod my response.
“I’m sorry for what I said today. I should have known better, should have known it wasn’t you. I’m just frustrated, I guess.”
Mike looks all sorrowful and sad. Like my father looked after he stayed out all night drinking, or after he’d slap my mother. That last year. The year before he died. Confused over his emotions. Sick over what he saw in that townhouse. Mike has the same look, misery brewing on the inside, lies and violence on the outside with momentary regret covering up every action, every word. I accept his apology. Besides, I might be able to use his guilt to my advantage.