Hard Time

by McKenna, Cara

  The morning Resources session wasn’t too crazy, but I’d been told the afternoon one was far more popular. “They get restless between lunch and dinner,” Leland told me in the staff break room.

  “Lucky me.” I dumped two packets of instant oatmeal in a mug and nuked it in the microwave. I ate without tasting, standing at the window that overlooked the exercise yard. The men loitered, worked out on push-up and chin-up bars, played shirts versus skins on the cracked, one-hoop basketball court.

  Years in this place, I thought. Years with nothing to do but ward off the boredom by building your muscles, maybe your mind. But even I could tell, there wasn’t much equipment on hand at Cousins promoting the latter.

  After lunch came Book Discussion—the only session I was actually looking forward to.

  I’d been encouraged to pick a story that would speak to the inmates’ struggles, but not enflame them. Something roughly suited to men with grossly adult problems but teenagers’ reading comprehension, and which also met the standards of both the ALA and Cousins. I’d read the prison’s guidelines, and they were fairly liberal. They discouraged “excessive violent and sexual content,” but happily posed no real censorship threat.

  Librarians love challenges—we’re all matchmakers, deep down—and I’d obsessed over my selection for days. I’d picked a book aimed at teens, thinking a story about a young man might hearken these guys back to the days before their lives had taken such awful turns.

  Book Discussion was held in a different room than the morning classes—big enough to seat fifty or sixty in plastic chairs, with me facing them, also sitting.

  The men filed in at one, and I was given two guards—mustache-of-steel Leland in the front corner and another man by the exit. There was much talking and joking, the guys still in social mode from their own lunch break.

  Pretend it’s a school group. As the chairs filled up I said, firmly as I could, “Quiet please. Thank you. Hi, everyone. I’m Ms. Goodhouse, the new librarian. Welcome to a new session of Book Discussion. I hope you’ll enjoy the story I’ve picked—”

  From the second row, “Here we go! To Kill a motherfucking Mockingbird!” Wallace again, Mr. Conjugal Fridays.

  A couple guys laughed, a couple shushed him.

  “It’s called Ship Breaker, by Paolo Bacigalupi,” I said. “That’s all I’ll tell you for now.” And I began to read.

  The story was set in a dystopian future, its protagonist a teenage boy named Nailer who scavenged copper from wrecked tankers. I hoped the setting would keep it separated somewhat from their lives, but the themes were ones I thought they’d care about—making one’s way in a harsh world. Survival, oppression, struggle, triumph. Love.

  As I read, the men went quiet. Eerily quiet, apart from when something interesting happened and the room hummed with a dozen mumbled comments.

  I’d picked a winner.

  My voice lost its brittle stage-fright edges. The room stirred when the dynamics between the young indentured ship breakers and their callous overseers were center stage.

  Despite the plan to keep my head down and read, my old storytime instincts proved too strong. I began glancing up, stealing a taste of eye contact every couple of sentences. I kept it brief—a second’s glimpse at a random face, just enough to engage, then back to the page.

  I was doing fine until fifteen minutes in, when another stolen glance brought my eyes to those of 802267.

  My heart froze. My lips stumbled, and I snapped my attention back to the book, resyncing my brain and the printed words.

  I tried to keep my face down, but knowing he was there, knowing exactly where his body was in this room, in relation to mine, knowing those dark eyes were trained right on me . . .

  I looked up.

  That stare. That unreadable expression, an impossible mix of apathy and fascination, coldness and searing seduction.

  Wait—what? I escaped back to the page, mouth moving on autopilot.

  Cold seduction. Yeah, right. Surely there was a better word for that quality, like oh, say, sociopathic.

  I was mindful to make eye contact only with the other side of the room for a few pages, but his gaze . . . it stuck to me. Clung like the heat left by a lover’s palm. It made my cheeks warm, and I hoped my blush didn’t show under the sallow fluorescents.

  My mind raced as my lips and tongue soldiered onward.

  Look again—you’ll see it was nothing. A trick of your mind. A zing of recognition for spotting a seemingly familiar face among the strangers. And familiar from the dayroom, only.

  Though why a man’s face should have imprinted so deeply, from so brief an encounter . . .

  He was handsome, to be sure. Not to everyone’s taste—not all-American wholesome-handsome. Much darker. A knowing and dangerous breed of charisma.

  Of course I knew all too well, looks deceived. The ex who’d ruptured my eardrum and left me with a popping jaw, he was all-American wholesome-handsome. Blond. Hazel eyes, green in the sun, and that smile. Give him a yellow Lab and a football, and the tableau was complete.

  Hand him a plastic tumbler—half cola, half rum—and he became something else entirely.

  That’s the only reason 802267 is so magnetic. He’s nothing like Justin. Blond, smiling Justin.

  This numbered, nameless stranger . . . he’d fucked up. Past tense. Fucked up bad enough to get locked away, and the absolute honesty of that held an unexpected appeal. Because whatever Justin’s crimes might prove to be—vehicular, domestic, drunk and disorderly—they were To Be Determined. If he didn’t stop drinking, something ugly awaited him, and the certainty of that fact, coupled with the uncertainty of when it might arrive and what shape it would take, was crushing.

  But this man, with his dark eyes, dark hair, dark stubble . . . A man like this one, sitting four rows back, three seats from the end . . . I knew where he sat, and where he stood. I knew where he slept—behind a thick metal door. And that made him safe, somehow.

  I stole another glance.

  His gaze was strong male hands cradling a baby bird—seemingly innocuous, but shot through with the potential for unbearable cruelty. 802267’s expression itself wasn’t cruel, but that mysterious stare . . . that could be promising anything. That wasn’t to be trusted.

  Quit looking.

  I met the eyes of the men around him, but he shone in my periphery. The way he sat, legs spread, hips scooted forward, arms draped lazily on his thighs. Like this were somebody’s yard. Like he had the collar of a beer bottle pinched between two fingers, the summer sun warm on the back of his neck. His eyes were steady, and I felt them on me. Felt them drinking up every word my mouth formed, licking them straight off my lips.

  It felt as though I were speaking other words to 802267, words no one else could hear.

  What’s that stare saying?

  What are you thinking?

  What did you do to forfeit your freedom? To deserve this life?

  What would you do to me, if it were just the two of us in here? Shiver.

  But what kind of shiver?

  Quit looking at me. But everyone was looking at me—whether they were imagining things that would make me sick or not, they had permission to look right at me, and they did. So why should one man’s attention burn when the others left me so cold?

  I glanced at the clock. Nearly half past, time to begin the discussion.

  When I closed the book on a cliffhanger, audible groans and one, “Aw, come on,” rewarded me.

  “So,” I said, looking around the room. At everyone but 802267. “Thoughts? Do we like Nailer? Why or why not? Hands, please.”

  No one spoke at first, but after a couple awkward breaths, a dark hand rose.

  “Yes,” I said, pointing to the young man.

  “I hope he get his back on that bitch, for leavin’ him to die.”

 
“Do you think he’d do the same to her,” I asked, “if he were the one in the position to maybe profit from all that oil?”

  A different hand rose in the front row and I nodded at its owner.

  “Naw, man. He understands about allies. He’d’a split it with her and that other chick.”

  “Fuck them,” somebody else said, and I gestured for the big, slope-shouldered skinhead to expand on this thought.

  “Anybody can tell themselves they’ll do what’s right in their head. But then when an opportunity arises . . .” He shrugged. “Survival instincts kick in. You gotta put yourself first. ’Specially when it’s life or death on the line. Or your freedom.”

  “I wouldn’t never do my crew that way,” came a petulant voice in the back.

  “Hands,” I reminded them. “That’s an interesting angle, talking about allies in a situation like this, isn’t it? Because Nailer has to both rely on his fellow ship breakers, but also compete with them for his place. Do we think Nailer’s going to try to get revenge on Sloth if he makes it out alive?”

  A few nods and grunts, and I called on a raised hand.

  “I bet he won’t,” said the thirtysomething Hispanic guy. “I bet he’ll turn the other cheek, right, ’cause he don’t wanna be a shit like his old man.”

  This roused a rumble of collective contemplation.

  The next hand belonged to Wallace, and what he said impressed me, proving him capable of more than undermining one-liners.

  “This world is like, dog eat dog. He be starvin’, man. If he don’t get hisself some mothafuckin’ revenge, man, ain’t nobody gon’ respect him. It’s like in here. You get one chance to prove what kinda balls you got. You pass that up, you fuckin’ dead.”

  “But then he ain’t no better than that Sloth bitch,” his neighbor said.

  The discussion stayed lively and mainly civil, and there were still hands raised when I was forced to wrap the session. The inmates rose with a scraping of chairs and much chatter, and a large guy from the front row approached me at a respectful distance. In a surprisingly gentle voice he said, “This is a fine-ass book, Miss. . . .”

  “Ms. Goodhouse.”

  “Right, Miss Goodhouse. Fine enough to be a movie.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  He didn’t smile, but there was a sad warmth in his eyes as he shuffled past. “I’ll be lookin’ forward to hearin’ what happen next. To see if he gets hisself out, or drowns, or what.”

  “Oh good.” I smiled until he turned away, then scanned the funneling crowd. No 802267. Not that I should have been looking.

  The rest of my day would be a partial repeat of the morning—Literacy Basics and Resources, back to back. The former was tense.

  Fuses were short in Cousins, and no one was eager to look stupid in front of a twentysomething woman or a roomful of their worst enemies, struggling to sound out words like bucket and ocean and seagull. There were meltdowns—frustrated, self-hating flashes reminiscent of the kids I’d helped decipher these same letters. These men needed my help, wanted my help. Resented my help.

  I could feel the tension flash and simmer now and then, like ripples of heat shimmering above hot asphalt. It kept me on edge. Even kept my mind off inmate 802267 for a time.

  Until an hour later, when I suddenly found myself face-to-face with him.

  Leland had been right—the afternoon block of Resources was more popular than the morning, and it was twice as long. There were lots of inmates and only one of me, and I could taste the collective impatience as I chose at random whom to help next.

  I was quizzing a younger guy for his upcoming GED test, when a tall figure came through the door. I knew who it was without even raising my eyes. Broad shoulders and slim hips, long legs. Overgrown dark hair. Eyes hot enough to singe.

  Fuck.

  Why was I even so freaked out? 802267 looked no more or less threatening than any of the other men, so it had to be intuition . . . Except he put me on alert one level deeper than mere fear. Made me feel warm and unnerved and restless in a way I didn’t trust at all. A way I wasn’t used to. A hunger I hadn’t been dogged by in years.

  He strolled between the tables to a free chair on the largely black side of the room, earning hostile glares as he took a seat. He had no papers or books with him, just sat there with his fingers linked atop the table, patient as could be.

  He reserved me with his stare, his silence telling me, I’ll be right here, waiting.

  Others had been angling for my attention for some time, and I was happy to avoid him for forty minutes or more. And still he simply sat there, hands clasped, eyes following me. I came around to him toward the end of the two-hour block, crossing the floor with my heart pounding. I was wheeling a chair everywhere I went, and I pushed it up to the end of his long table, smiling as I took a seat kitty-corner to him.

  “You’ve been awful patient. Can I help you with something?”

  Nearly a smile. Nearly. His voice was deep. Low. Rich and dark as spring soil. “I hope so.”

  “So do I. Shoot.”

  “I don’t write too well.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ve tried the literacy classes before, but they weren’t much help.”

  “No?”

  “I already know all that kindergarten bull, about sounding shit out. I read all right, but my writing’s shit. I have to think about every damn letter like it’s the first time I’ve ever seen it. Dyslexia or whatever.”

  “Actually, that sounds like dysgraphia.”

  “Like what?”

  “It’s like a cousin of dyslexia. You can read just fine, you said?”

  He nodded once, like a cowboy or something. The way he never took his eyes off my face made me antsy. Squirmy all over. I prayed he couldn’t tell. “I read okay. Not fast, but a couple books a week.”

  “But you find the letters difficult to form, when you sit down to write something?”

  “I can copy them just fine, but they don’t stay in my head. Not all of them, anyhow.”

  “Yeah, that’s dysgraphia.” Dear God, why had he not been diagnosed by first or second grade? What chance did a kid stand in a school system like that? “Would you like to make a plan for working with your challenges?”

  “If you’ve got one.”

  “Well, I know this isn’t the ideal place for it, but many people with your challenge find that typing makes writing a lot easier, once they get used to the keyboard. Do you have much of a computer background?”

  “No. But that’s true—it’s way easier to type. I can find letters way quicker than I can remember how to make them myself.”

  “Great. If you come to Resources again next Friday, I’ll bring some worksheets and literature about dysgraphia. And maybe you could let me watch you write a little, and that way I can see exactly where it is we’re starting from. Sound okay?”

  Another dip of his stubble-black chin. “That sounds all right.”

  With a vivid flash, I tried to picture him on the outside. How he dressed. Baggy jeans or snug ones, leather jacket or a plaid button-up, some freebie shirt with a beer logo on it . . . ? What kind of work had he done before he got incarcerated? Physical? Or were those hard, tanned arms a byproduct of this place, of this existence with its bottomless wells of boredom and danger?

  Another inmate interrupted my stupor.

  “Hey! Tick tock, library lady. I been waitin’ over an hour here.”

  I opened my mouth to assure him he’d be next, but 802267 spoke before I could. He whipped his head around and caught the guy in the coldest beam of disgust you ever saw.

  “You see a number on her shirt?” he demanded.

  “What you—”

  802267 sat up real straight. “’Cause I don’t. And since she hasn’t got a number on her shirt, I guess that means she doesn’t
have to be here. So treat the lady with some respect, since she’s been nice enough to show up and pretend to give a fuck about your incarcerated ass.”

  The chastised man pushed his chair out with a squeal and headed for the door, muttering. 802267 turned back to me, posture relaxing. “Where were we?”

  “Right,” I said, face burning. “You come back next week, and I’ll come prepared to help.”

  “Deal.”

  I paused before adding, gently, “I do give a fuck, incidentally.”

  He cracked a smile, making me feel a more southerly persuasion of flustered.

  I was poised to rise, but his stare nailed me in place—from cool to broiling in a breath. He spoke quietly. Like we were engaged in a conspiracy.

  “I like how you talk.”

  “Oh.” I swallowed, cheeks and neck burning red-hot. “Th-thank you.”

  “Where you from?”

  “South Carolina.”

  “I never met anybody from South Carolina.” His voice was deep and resonant, and it required no volume to command my attention. He spoke with a tone that was threat, coercion, seduction, lament. All at once. I never met anybody from South Carolina. The way he said it, anything could have come next.

  I never met anybody from South Carolina . . .

  . . . but I love bluegrass.

  . . . but I stabbed a man to death in Tennessee.

  . . . but I hear the girls there taste like peaches.

  “What’s the weather like there?” he asked.

  “Nice,” I said stupidly, nodding. Terrified. Hypnotized. “Real nice.”

  His gaze dropped from my eyes to my mouth, the weight of it as real as a kiss. His own lips were parted, the lower one looking full and flushed.

  “Real hot summers,” he said.