The Best in the West

by Kathleen Walker

  “That about does it,” Jason said, straightening up from his stance over the tripod. “Anything else you can think of, Debbie? Out here, I mean?”

  “No. I guess we should go inside.”

  “Now remember,” said the man with the short-sleeved white shirt, “stay back from the cells. Stay in the middle.”

  He shouldered the recorder so Jason could carry the tripod with the camera screwed into position. They passed into the gloom of the brick block.

  “This is where we put the men who need protection from the general population,” he told Debbie.

  Her eyes moved across the high rows of cells.

  “Do they ever go outside?” she asked in a whisper. “When the other prisoners are inside, sure.”

  Jason moved to the center of the cellblock. The warden’s man turned back to the guards at the door. Debbie moved further into the dark of the building.

  “Hey, hey,” the voices called to her. “Hey, lady.”

  They came from a dark corner of the old brick building.

  “Hey, hey, come here,” came the soft plea from the dark. “Come closer.”

  She took a few steps toward the cells and peered through the gloom, trying to find the face that matched the voice.

  “I can’t see you,” she cried.

  “Whatcha doin’, lady?” came the voice of a black man lost in the blackness.

  “We’re doing a story about overcrowding down here,” she said and tried to turn in the direction of the voice but she was confused. She turned again.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “What station you work for?” This seemed to be another voice.

  Jason worked far from her, raising the camera and his eyes to the highest tier.

  “Can we see it? When?” came the first voice.

  “Tonight, probably. Maybe again tomorrow at noon.” She tired to talk to all of the cells in that corner, like an audience. She smiled shyly.

  “You never really know, but probably tonight.”

  “What station?” asked a voice.

  “What she say?” came a faraway call.

  “Hey, hey, lady,” The first voice softly begged for attention. “Hey, you know that Jean Ann Maypin? You know her?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I work with her. Same station.”

  “She a nice lady? She looks like a real nice lady.”

  “You fool,” came a laugh. “What a motherfuckin’ fool.”

  “Shit,” echoed down the cell row.

  Jason signalled to her.

  “I have to go,” she told the wall of darkness.

  “Hey, hey, lady, what’s your name?”

  “Debbie Hanson,” she said without hesitating.

  “You’re on television, lady? Can we see you on the television?”

  “Almost every night.” She gave a little laugh and turned away.

  “You got everything?” she asked Jason.

  “Everything I can get and it ain’t much. I hope you don’t plan more than a minute on this story because we don’t have squat.”

  She looked up to the top row of cells. There was more light up there. It wasn’t so terrible. They weren’t so bad, the people in here, only sad and lonely.

  Jason picked up the camera and the tripod. The man in the white shirt moved toward the recorder and she looked up again.

  “Psst, psst,” insisted the call. She found it, the voice, in the cell on the second row. The lower half of the cell was covered with a sheet, a privacy constructed by the man within. She smiled a greeting.

  Then, she saw it. His penis was poked through a hole in the sheet, full and red. He was masturbating. She saw his eyes as he watched over the top of the sheet. They were wide and staring, floating above the white sheet. She turned away and quickly followed after Jason.

  “Bye, lady, bye-bye,” cried the voice from the darkest corner of the cells.

  She walked into the sunlight.

  “We’ll go up to the activity rooms,” their man was saying. “You know, we’ve got our own television station, right here. Only problem is nobody really knows what to do with it. We have a prison news show, stories about classes and things that are going on. They really like that.” He and Jason walked ahead.

  *

  “Stop, stop, please,” she pleaded. “Please stop now.”

  “Sure, okay,” he said, and turned the van onto the shoulder of the desert highway.

  She ran a few steps, bent over and vomited.

  “Oh, God,” she gagged. “Oh, God, please.”

  “Debbie, what’s wrong? What can I do?” He stood behind her,

  She waved him away. “Don’t look at me, please. Go back.”

  “Debbie, please.” He moved to take her arm.

  She shook her head and fell to her knees. She threw up again.

  “Tell me what to do.”

  “Get me something to wipe my mouth, please, Jason,” she said, reaching out one hand without turning her head.

  He ran back to the van and grabbed a handful of the tissue sheets they used to clean the camera lens.

  “I’m okay,” she told him as she wiped her mouth. “I am, really.”

  She tried to laugh as she stood up and brushed at her skirt.

  “I didn’t have anything to eat this morning. I guess I don’t feel so good.”

  “You want to stop some place? A doctor, emergency room?”

  “No, no,” she assured him as they got back in the van.

  “We’ll get you something to eat,” he said. “Don’t worry. That’s what you need, food. Don’t worry about getting back to the station. Fuck that. I’m going to get you something to eat and then you can go home. I’ll take care of George.”

  She leaned back in the seat. “No.” She sighed. “I’ll be fine in a minute.”

  “Don’t argue with me, Debbie. I’m taking you home. Between the heat and that goddamn hole and not eating, you’ve made yourself sick.” His voice was strong, confident.

  “Please don’t worry, Jason.”

  “I am worried, damn it,” he shouted. “At least let me pull over for some coffee or something. A soda, that might be good. You might need some sugar, right?”

  He gave her a quick worried look. Her eyes were closed, her head resting on the seatback.

  “It was that place,” she said hoarsly. “It was so dark in there. It was so strange. It was like cages and animals. I just want to forget it.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Right.”

  He knew it. It was that place. Prisons could have that affect on you, like your first operation.

  “I know what you mean. I hate these stories. I don’t feel so good myself and I’m so macho,” he joked. “Yeah, I’d rather cover a good cancer operation any day,” trying to make her laugh. But, he meant it. Cancer over prisons any day.

  39

  Four people came to group that night, the older woman, Jane the nurse, Terry the addict, and Debbie.

  “I suppose we should start,” the doctor said.

  “Where is everyone?” the older woman asked.

  “I don’t know. No one called.” He gave them a tired smile.

  Debbie tried to return it before going back to staring at her patch of the world beyond the small window.

  “So, how is it going?” the doctor said to no one in particular.

  “Fine,” Debbie said, making her voice bright. “Good.”

  “I think my job is going to be better now,” the older woman said. “I think my boss is going to retire and that’s good news.”

  They looked at her.

  “It means I’ll be working for someone else. That’s got to be better.”

  “Do you know for sure he’s leaving?” asked Debbie.

  “No, but that’s what people are saying, that he is going to take early retirement.”

  “What if he doesn’t?” Debbie asked gently, trying not to sound critical.

  “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know.” The older woman’s
eyes became confused, frightened.

  “You don’t have to think about that now,” the doctor told her with a pointed look at Debbie.

  “But I thought she was going to make a decision about her job,” the nurse joined in. “Him leaving doesn’t mean she’s made a decision, does it, Doctor?”

  Terry moved on the couch, shifting his position, then shifting again.

  “Why shouldn’t I hope he leaves,” the older woman asked. “What’s wrong with that? It would be easier for me.”

  Debbie looked over at Terry. He had been off drugs for almost three months. Every session she told him how great that was. She felt proud of him and thought she may have helped him by being in the group.

  “I gotta tell you,” Terry cut in. “I mean, I don’t have to but …” He looked at each of them before stopping at Debbie. “But, I am going to anyway.”

  The black circles of his glasses faced her.

  “I shot up before I came here. I am high right now,” he announced in a loud voice.

  Debbie’s mouth fell open.

  “Terry,” the doctor gasped.

  Terry shrugged and folded his arms across his chest.

  “No,” Debbie cried out. “That’s wrong. That’s all wrong.”

  The others turned and stared.

  “It’s wrong,” she told Terry angrily. “You are supposed to be stopping this. That’s why you are here and you’re high. You couldn’t wait an hour?”

  “He did tell us, Debbie,” the older woman said strongly. “That counts.”

  “That’s right, Debbie,” the doctor said with a look of doubt.

  “That is not right,” she yelled, the panic, the fear, growing in this horror of a room.

  “What are we doing here week after week? What are we doing here?” she demanded.

  “At least he came,” the nurse said, reaching for a cigarette from the doctor’s pack. He nodded his permission.

  “Yes,” he said to Debbie, “Jane is right. At least he felt he could come here.”

  “So what? He’s high. He’s on drugs,” she protested. “He couldn’t even wait an hour. You couldn’t even wait,” she cried to Terry.

  “I knew it!” he shouted, jumping to his feet. “I didn’t have to say anything. I didn’t even have to come here.” He stomped out of the room.

  The doctor went after him.

  “Don’t you see what’s wrong here?” Debbie begged of the two women in the room. “We are coming here to get better. This is the one place we are supposed to come and try to get better so we can leave. And he comes in here on drugs. Don’t you see how crazy that is? Don’t you?”

  “Terry will be in in a second,” the doctor said as he came back into the room. “He is outside trying to calm down.” He glared at Debbie, his face blotched red.

  “This is terribly hard for him,” he told her. “We asked him to be honest with us. He’s doing his best and we aren’t making it any easier for him.”

  Pure terror suddenly enveloped her. He was telling her she was wrong, all of her feelings were wrong. They were all telling her that. But, no, she wasn’t wrong. She couldn’t be wrong.

  “I think we should ask him to come back in now,” said the doctor. “And I think we should be gentle with him. He was in trouble and he came to us. Okay?”

  Debbie felt the bile moving high in her throat.

  “Terry, come on in. Terry?” the doctor called.

  He walked in, head lowered, and sat back on the couch. He folded his arms across his chest.

  “I will never forgive you for what you said,” he told Debbie in a cold voice. “And, I’m never going to forget it.”

  “Terry,” the doctor warned.

  “No. At least I came here. I didn’t have to.”

  “That’s right,” agreed the older woman thoughtfully.

  Debbie was taking short, fast breaths. She put one hand to her forehead.

  “I don’t think this is right, any of this,” she said as though speaking to herself. “This isn’t why we are here. We are here to get better, not to stay the same way forever.”

  “I don’t know why we are here. I never really have,” the older woman sighed.

  Debbie looked to the tiny slit of a window. It couldn’t be much longer now.

  *

  Brown caught Jason as he was leaving the station.

  “What’s this I hear about Debbie getting sick?” he asked.

  “Ah, you know. It was hot. She hadn’t eaten much. She got sick. End of story.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I am really worried about that girl, fella,” Brown said as they walked to the parking lot. “I am really worried about her.”

  “Ah, she’s okay,” Jason told him.

  “Something has been wrong with that girl for a couple of months now,” Brown said. “I can’t figure it out what it is.”

  He watched Jason’s face as he added, “Maybe she needs to talk to a therapist or something?”

  “Oh come on, Jim. It’s only the job. You know how it can get to you. It gets to everybody once in a while.”

  “Yes, it can,” Brown agreed. “But I get the feeling there is something else going on. You have any idea what it could be?”

  Jason shook his head.

  “Yeah, something else. We really have to help her,” Brown pronounced solemnly.

  *

  She rocked on the couch, arms pulling her legs tight to her chest, swaying back and forth as the television sent soundless pictures back to her. Outside Clifford waited, staring at the peephole. He rang the bell once, twice.

  “Hey, Debbie,” he called. “Debbie, you in there? It’s me, Clifford. Debbie?”

  The bell rang again.

  She waited and believed she heard a soft sigh as he moved away from the door.

  40

  She answered the phone on the first ring.

  “Ellen, it’s me, Clifford,” his voice was blurred by background noise.

  “Where are you?”

  “Some bar. Hey, listen. I went by Debbie’s and she’s not answering the door. Could you give her a call or something?”

  “Why don’t you call her?”

  “I tried, but she didn’t answer the phone and I know she’s there. I know it and I heard she got sick up at the prison today. She was throwing up or something.”

  “What?”

  “Somebody said she had the flu or something, but I’m worried.”

  “She’s probably unplugged the phone so she can get some rest. It’s nothing to worry about.”

  “And George told me I had to take the next few days off.”

  “Why?”

  “He said I was too high in overtime and I needed to give it a break. I was supposed to work this weekend and he told me to forget it. You believe that?”

  “I believe everything.”

  “Can you meet me for a pizza or something?”

  “Clifford, it’s eleven o’clock. No way I’m leaving here. Tell me what else George said.”

  “Hell with it. I’m tired of this shit. I’ll talk to you later.”

  He went back to his seat at the bar. On either side of him, two stools away, sat a white man.

  He sipped his scotch.

  “Doing okay?” the bartender asked with a tight-lipped smile.

  Clifford wondered if he got the word to keep the blacks down at the bar. You didn’t want too many, did you, not on the busy nights. A few were okay on the slow nights but not on Friday and Saturday nights. Too many blacks sent the young white businessmen with the money someplace else. He bet this bartender knew how to make it rough on blacks on weekends.

  “Hey,” Clifford asked, “can I get something to eat?”

  “Too late. Kitchen’s closed. Sorry.”

  Yeah, thought Clifford, sure.

  “That’s okay,” he said. He was tired and he was lonely. He hadn’t had a date in months. The couple of clubs he went to were filled with brothers wearing but
ton-down white shirts and talking about how it was at the old fraternity and how it was now at the big corporation. What was that? Those brothers were whiter than anybody in this honky town.

  “Who do you like for the game?” the bartender asked as he wiped down the counter.

  “I don’t follow college ball that much.”

  “That’s smart. This town never had much of a team.”

  Clifford nodded. Man, he had to get out of this place and he had to do it soon. He motioned for a refill.

  There he was, picking up the scraps, George’s raggedy old stories. No big medical series for him. Oh, no. Mr. Jason gets the good stories and what he didn’t get Steve got, and then Cappy. And what did that get him day after day? He got shit. That’s what he got, shit.

  And now this thing about overtime.

  “How am I supposed to pay my bills?” he yelled at George. “You’re taking money out of my pocket. Am I working for free here or what?”

  And, what did he get?

  “It’s not my fault. Talk to Brown.”

  That’s what he got.

  Steve heard it all and what did he say?

  “Nothing is going to change. Nothing is ever going to change.”

  Oh yeah, something could change. He could get out of there. Yes, he could. Other photographers did. They came in one day and said, “I’m out of here. I got me a job in Denver,” or San Diego or Miami.

  Look at Jason. He’d be going to DC or New York. He didn’t say anything, but he was looking. They all knew that, and he’d go. Cappy too. Steve would stay. He’d been big time once. Now he was drinking quiet and keeping his mouth shut.

  And him? He was busy flapping his lips and going nowhere, no how.

  He studied his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He was the blackest thing in this room, in this town. Now, what was that?

  41

  Tom Carter wasn’t about to forget Tony’s so-called joke. He knew these people too well. Tony makes a joke about someone being pregnant. George Harding says something about a stomachache. Brown makes excuses for her. They all knew what was going on and there was only one of them he could trust to give him a straight answer.

  “Everything okay with you?” He tried to smile at Ellen Peters.

  “Why not?” She knew he wanted something and he wasn’t going to get it from her. He never did, not unless she knew it would annoy him and not hurt anyone else.