Tortured Teardrops

by P. D. Workman

  There was excited chatter up and down the hall. The inmates were finally able to talk to each other and to try to get details on what had happened the night that the lockdown had been put into place. There would be wild rumors but, considering that two of the girls were now without a cellmate, it wouldn’t take long before everyone knew that two girls had been killed, and that was why the lockdown had been imposed.

  The guards might fill in a few details. They were in a position of power not just by virtue of the fact that they carried weapons, but because they had knowledge. Everyone was going to want the scoop.

  After the noise of the walking and talking inmates passed, Tamara could hear the feet of one of the guards taking a slow walk down the corridor of the housing section. It was Kirk. He looked in at Tamara, raising one eyebrow in surprise at finding her still there.

  “Reveille’s gone, French. Showers or breakfast. Move along.”

  “I was just waiting for it to quiet down…”

  “It’s quiet now. Clear out. We want to do a cell search and clean up.”

  Tamara had been getting to her feet, but at the mention of a cell search she froze. It wasn’t like she had any contraband, but it still gave her pause. Someone else could have gone into her room and put something there without Tamara realizing it. Normally, she did a quick search of her own cell every couple of days. There weren’t many places to look, but it was important to stay alert in case anyone had wanted to get contraband out of her own room, or to implicate Tamara in some way.

  “Keep going,” Kirk growled.

  Tamara took a quick glance around her cell. Clothes, hygiene kit, and a clear plastic shoebox that was intended to store any personal possessions. Tamara’s was empty, or it should be.

  “I just wanted to—”

  “You can brush your teeth after breakfast. Out you go.”

  Tamara reluctantly dragged herself to her feet and went out to the hallway. “I don’t have anything.” She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to explain. “It’s just… sometimes things show up in unexpected places.”

  He chuckled and nudged her toward the canteen. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Tamara looked around the canteen. There were small groups of girls chattering, not yet serving themselves or sitting down at tables. It was unusual, as conversation was normally kept to a minimum during meals and the girls were supposed to go down the counter immediately and not cluster together and socialize. Too much could happen in the canteen if the guards couldn’t watch the girls closely.

  Tamara didn’t approach the counter immediately. She wasn’t making herself a target by turning her back to them and acting differently from the group. She folded her arms and looked around, trying to decide what to do. She didn’t have a circle of friends to swap gossip with. She wasn’t part of a gang that would need to update each other and maybe give assignments after having been separated for two days.

  Tamara wondered how many of them had been questioned. Surely Buxton would have talked to the leaders of each gang, to anyone the guards identified as being enemies to the dead girls, and to anyone they thought might snitch or offer up some small pearl of information. He had talked to Tamara, but that didn’t mean she was a suspect. Certainly not their prime suspect. The girls looked like they had killed each other. A fight between the two of them. Not something to do with a third party.

  “Come on, line up and get your meal, or you’ll be sent back to your rooms,” one of the guards warned, raising his voice over the unusual hubbub.

  The inmates started moving toward the serving counter. Still talking to each other, but complying with the instruction to move on. Tamara let a few people line up in front of her and merged herself into the crowd as they lengthened out into a line. A few people gave her speculative looks. Were they remembering Tamara’s grudge with Tabby and the Sharks? Did they know she’d been questioned by Buxton? That she’d been in the area when the two girls were killed? Tamara aimed glares at anyone who looked too long in her direction, and remarkably, they all looked back away, not engaging. Maybe she had succeeded. Maybe she had shored up her rep enough that people would leave her alone.

  It was when she was at the counter that the crowd shifted and she caught sight of Zobel. Tamara was so startled by his ghostly appearance that she dropped her tray the couple of inches from where she was holding it to the counter in a clatter of dishes and cutlery. Zobel didn’t look in her direction, but some of the girls around her jumped and turned toward her, startled and alert for trouble. Tamara pretended to be straightening things on her tray,

  There were several choice words tossed in her direction, but no one said anything loudly enough or to her face so that she could identify them. Tamara would have been pissed if someone else had dropped their tray and made her jump, so she couldn’t really blame them. She didn’t apologize, but when the line started to move again, slid her tray forward, trying to catch another glimpse of Zobel. The crowd was blocking her view. When she got to the end of the counter, she moved to the outer edge of the girls, circling around them and looking for Zobel.

  She couldn’t see him. Just a ghost, then. Tamara let out her breath, disappointed, and aimed for one of the tables she usually sat at.

  The discussion at the table quieted as she approached, as if they had been discussing her. Tamara looked over the faces warily, but no one challenged her, so she sat down and tried to relax. If they chose not to discuss her or anything she might have been involved in when she was at the table, that was good. That was a sign of respect. If they didn’t respect her, they would have just gone on discussing it to her face. Then she’d have to do something about it.

  Tamara sat down and picked at the unappetizing food. On the TV in the common room she’d seen a news story about how some schools were shifting their cafeteria menus to salad bars and fresh foods, even hiring on-site chefs to manage their menus and cooking. She wished that the prison facilities would take up the challenge as well and start feeding them real food like Tamara used to eat on Gram’s farm, instead of reconstituted or over-processed slop.

  She shredded the crusts of her toast and opened her juice.

  “French!”

  Tamara jumped and whirled around at her name. There were a few giggles at her reaction. Perez was talking, gesturing animatedly. She had not been calling Tamara, but had only mentioned her name in the course of her conversation. She saw Tamara’s eyes on her and she dropped her spoon. It fell to the floor with a clatter. Lewis was sitting nearby and slow-clapped.

  “Smooth, Perez.”

  “I just…” Perez couldn’t explain. She blushed red despite her dark complexion. She bent over to pick up her spoon. Tamara wouldn’t have opened herself up for a face-first shove into the floor that way, but Perez was surrounded by the Sharks. They would watch her back rather than take advantage of her. Perez retrieved the spoon and put it back on her tray. She tried to find her place in the conversation but, looking up, saw Tamara’s eyes still on her.

  Did Perez know something? She and Waterson had been admitted to juvie at the same time. The same day Tamara had returned to the facility after her breach of parole. They had moved into the Sharks together. How much else had they shared? They were always together, like two sisters. But it wasn’t like Waterson had known what was going to happen. She couldn’t have sensed something, some malevolence from Tamara. It was only chance that she had left the Sharks and gone off on her own when Tamara was watching for her chance. Tamara hadn’t felt any particular animosity for her. The Shark she would have preferred to take out was Blacksnake, a girl who had been Tamara’s cellie for a few short days before the prison break.

  Tamara finally turned back around to face her plate and take a bite of the toast. It was simultaneously dry and greasy and a little sour, like it had been made from bread that had gone off before it was sold to the prison. Prisoners would eat anything; it didn’t matter what kind of shape it was in. Administrators were always looking for ways to cut costs.r />
  Tamara waited a while longer, until other inmates started to put their empty trays and dishes on the counter. Then she did the same, dumping the rest of her food in the garbage on the way. None of the guards noticed; or if they did, they didn’t say anything.

  She waited for others to start leaving the canteen. Eventually, the bell rang so she could get out the door with the group without being noticed.

  It was when she walked out the canteen door that she saw Zobel again, stationed with his back against the wall, watching the exiting inmates. Tamara stopped stock-still and stared at him. The inmates exiting behind her shoved her out of the way.

  Then Zobel saw her. His eyes widened just a bit and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth and eyes. Tamara wasn’t close enough to talk to him, but she saw his mouth form the words, ‘Tamara French’ in greeting.

  She was afraid to approach him. Afraid he was just a ghost or hallucination and that she would give herself away in front of the other inmates. Once they knew how crazily muddled her head was, there would be no way to protect herself.

  She took a couple of steps toward him and Zobel took a tentative one toward her, putting space between himself and the wall he had been standing against. He had a job to do, keeping an eye on the inmates exiting the cafeteria and looking for any weapons or threats, but his attention was on Tamara instead.

  “How are you?” he asked, closer. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” Tamara breathed, worried about raising her voice above the hum of the crowd. “What about you?”

  He stood before her, big as life. They were both awkward. Tamara thought maybe she should hug him, or at least shake his hand. Something to show how glad she was that he wasn’t dead. That she had been part of keeping him alive. But touching was prohibited. Tamara wouldn’t have shown affection in front of the other juvies even if it weren’t.

  Zobel turned his arm to show it to her, the long scar that was still healing. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he had been slashed, but it had only been a few weeks earlier. The scar was still pink and bright. “Almost as good as new.”

  Tamara looked around at the other inmates flowing past her and was glad to see their surreptitious glances toward Zobel, taking in his presence and the scar and his conversation with Tamara. That meant that Zobel was really there. He wasn’t just a hallucination. Unless the other girls were actually looking at Tamara because she was talking to thin air.

  “I didn’t know… if you had made it.”

  “Thanks to you,” Zobel acknowledged, with a little nod. Tamara drank in the sight of him. He was really there. He was really okay. Because of what she had done.

  “You’re looking a little piqued, though,” Zobel observed. “You been sick?”

  Tamara shrugged. If anyone else had asked her, it would have been a challenge. She would have had to jump at the opportunity to prove that she was just as capable as ever. But with Zobel, it was different. He’d seen her at her worst with Glock. He knew she was tough. And he owed her.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Just getting settled in… we’ve been on lockdown.”

  “I know.”

  “And I guess you know…” Tamara trailed off and shrugged.

  “About Waterson and Tabitha Smith? Yes, I heard.”

  “Tabby… did you know that she was the one who…” Tamara nodded to his arm. Zobel looked down at the scar and then back at Tamara.

  “No. I couldn’t remember any of it. I only know what they told me. And what I’ve seen in the video. But it’s not clear; there are too many people between the camera and what happened to see who it was that got me.”

  Tamara nodded. “Yeah. That’s what they said. But it was Tabby. She tried once and I stopped her. Then she tried again… but I couldn’t…”

  “You still helped me. Thank you.” He made a movement like he was going to shake her hand or touch her arm, then stopped. Guards were not allowed to have physical contact with the juvies. Not unless they were putting them in handcuffs, escorting them, doing a search, or some other part of their job. Any other contact between guards and inmates was prohibited and the guards who broke the rule were likely to get thrown out, either for abuse or for fraternization, which was another way of saying they couldn’t have girlfriends among the juvies.

  Zobel and Tamara just looked at each other, uncertain how to proceed. Tamara shrugged. “Yeah. I’m glad… you didn’t die.”

  She stared at the wall behind Zobel, reliving the scene. Zobel’s blood spurting across her, warm and sticky. Trying to somehow keep him from bleeding to death before help could arrive. The rest of the guards arriving in riot gear, their faces covered, like some paramilitary operation. Tamara swallowed. He was okay. He had wilted in front of her, faded away, but she had done everything she could. Somehow, it had all worked out. She couldn’t stop seeing Tabby’s knife flash across Zobel’s body and the shower of blood that had drenched her.

  “French.”

  Tamara startled and looked at Zobel. She tried to remain focused on him. He was there. He was in the present, not the past. She didn’t need to remember what had happened. He had survived and he was back guarding juvie again.

  “Yeah.”

  His hand went out again. Came close to touching her. Sketched a path over the surface of her arm without making contact. He pulled back and put both his hands behind him, clasped behind him in a military ‘at ease’ stance to keep himself from touching her. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  There was a crash and a yelp as two girls went through the door at once, horsing around and breaking the ‘single file’ rule. Tamara whirled around to protect herself, fists up to her chest before seeing the two were laughing rather than fighting. Tamara blew out a breath and tried to shake it off, her heart still pounding wildly. She looked at Zobel to say something casual to him, to make fun of herself for overreacting to nothing.

  Zobel’s face was pale and bloodless, even his lips were almost white. He grasped his handgun with his right hand, though he hadn’t cleared the holster. It was clear that he had been prepared to. Tamara gave a wide shrug with her hands, excusing him. No one else seemed to have noticed his overreaction. A few inmates scowled at the girls who were roughhousing, but no one looked at Zobel to see him there with his gun almost out.

  “You’d better move on,” Zobel said finally. “I want to talk to you more… but this isn’t the place.”

  Tamara wondered if there would ever be a time and place. He wasn’t supposed to fraternize with her. She couldn’t spend any time paying attention to him without the other juvies noticing and wondering what was going on and starting rumors. She didn’t need the reputation of being a cop lover. She had already pushed the envelope on that one, having twice turned herself in instead of running when she had the chance. Most of the girls thought that if they’d been given the chance to run, they would have taken it. They didn’t know what it was like to be trying to make it on the outside after living an institutional lifestyle for three years. Making choices, taking responsibility, expected to live like a free person after taking away her ability to make any choices for three years.

  Tamara hadn’t understood either, when she was on the inside, how girls could come back to juvie broken and despairing after they had sworn they would make good on the outside. She hadn’t understood how hard it would be to be human again, and how all she would want was to be back in the familiar environment with someone else making all of the choices for her.

  11

  TAMARA SAT IN a classroom. She wasn’t even sure what subject was being taught. She was thinking about seeing Zobel and what it meant to her. Now they were both back, guard and inmate. He appeared to be in good health, the scar on his arm healing as quickly as could be expected. He’d returned to duty, passing whatever qualifications he had to in order to prove he was once more fit for duty.

  Tamara, who hadn’t been through the same physical trauma as he had, who’d never been on the edge of losing
her life like he had, felt like she was still spiraling downward. She didn’t know how deep the vortex would take her or what would happen when she hit bottom. She wanted to be normal again, to pretend that, like Mrs. Henson said, she was working on succeeding the next time she made parole, but that seemed laughable. Her? She already had two strikes against her. Why would they ever consider letting her out again? More likely, she was just going to fall farther and farther, sinking into her own deranged mind, until she didn’t even know she wanted to climb out again.

  “Tamara French?”

  Tamara raised her head. The teacher must have asked her a question, but Tamara had no idea what. Everyone was looking at her expectantly. A female guard was moving toward her. Interrupting the class to deal with her. Tamara held on to the desktop with both hands, trying to stabilize herself and keep herself present.

  “What?”

  “Come on. Come with me.”

  Tamara tried to make herself move before the guard got to her side, but she couldn’t. There were snickers around the classroom, whispered comments back and forth, the teacher waiting impatiently at the front of the room.

  The guard, a young woman with a plain, angry resting face, took Tamara’s arm. “I said come with me. Let’s go.”

  Tamara’s body followed without any conscious design. She was halfway to the door before she thought of resisting and pulled back.

  The guard just gripped her tighter and kept moving. They were out of the classroom and Tamara was wondering what was going on and what she should do when the woman pulled her handcuffs from her heavy belt and slapped them over Tamara’s wrists.

  “What? I didn’t do anything,” Tamara protested. “What’s this for? I came with you.”

  The guard didn’t answer. Without the lockdown, it didn’t take long to get from one part of the facility to another and in a few minutes they were in the housing wing and Tamara was in the doorway of her own cell, looking in.