by Rena Olsen
Glen releases me and grabs a backpack from the ground, shrugging it onto his shoulders. A second backpack is loaded onto my back, and I stumble at the weight. “You okay?” Glen asks. “I gave you the lighter one.”
I adjust the straps and hike it into a more comfortable position on my shoulders. Better. “Yes, I’ll be fine. Really.” I give him my most convincing smile, and he returns it.
“Okay then. Let’s go.” He takes my hand and leads me into the trees that surround the house. I cannot remember a time when I left the grounds of the house. Icy fear runs through me, down to my bones. I have no idea what to expect out there. I clutch Glen’s hand tighter. He squeezes in response, but says nothing. It occurs to me as we crunch through the snow that for all the work we did to cover our escape route, our footprints will make it pretty obvious which way we’re heading. I mention this to Glen, and he shrugs.
“They won’t catch on right away. They’ll assume someone was patrolling. I walked around a lot out there while I waited for you. They won’t be able to tell which set is which.”
The boots he has given me are the same as the men all wear, if a smaller size. Glen has done his best to cover all the bases and make a clean getaway. We trudge through the woods, cutting through thicker groups of trees to leave fewer prints. As we head in the direction of the road, I hear loud music and shouts of raucous laughter. I stop.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing, ignore it,” Glen says, tugging my hand, urging me to continue.
“I didn’t think there was anything out here for miles. We haven’t walked miles, have we?”
“No, Clara, we’re still on Papa G’s property. Which means we have to hurry.”
“Then what is that?”
Glen sighs. “One of Papa G’s other businesses.”
“What is it?”
“Why are you so curious?” Glen yanks my arm again, and I yelp in pain. “Sorry,” he apologizes. “Can we just go?”
I extricate my hand from his grasp and cross my arms. “Tell me what it is, Glen.” I don’t know why I’ve become so stubborn or so bold, but I don’t like that Glen is keeping things from me. This is not a good way to start our lives together.
Glen comes close. “You want to know what it is?” He grabs me and propels me toward the noise. We come to the edge of the trees and I see a one-story log building, every window lit up from inside with dim, smoky, neon lighting.
“It’s a bar?” I guess. I know a little about bars. Papa G likes to talk about meeting clients there, taking them for a beer. He always comes back smelling foul and stumbling around.
“Not just a bar,” Glen whispers. “Are you sure you want to know?” At my nod, he leads me around to the back of the building. We stay low to the ground, crouching as we run. The first window we peek into is a giant room. Tables are scattered throughout the room, and all chairs face a small stage with a pole. A woman is dancing on the stage, but it is nothing like the dancing we learned in Mama Mae’s studio. Along the walls, a few other girls gyrate in steel cages, while men with glassy eyes stare at them with slack-jawed expressions. None of the women are wearing tops, and their bottoms barely qualify as clothing. Even as I watch, a man and woman stumble together toward a hallway at the back, hanging off each other and laughing like children. Revulsion rises in the back of my throat. I turn to say something to Glen, but he is on the move again. He looks back over his shoulder at me, but does not meet my eyes.
“Are you ready to get out of here now?” he asks, his voice rough.
“Yes.”
Determined to focus on what’s ahead, I turn my back and disappear into the woods, leaving Papa G’s “business” behind.
Now
I don’t have a concussion, but my head is still swimming. I beg Connor for the rest of the day off, and I can tell he wants to refuse. He hasn’t gotten the information he needs, and he is growing desperate. In the end, he concedes. I lie in bed the rest of the day, thinking of Glen, wondering how I am to answer these questions and follow his rules. I try to devise a plan to help him, but I am lost. I try to invent stories I can tell Connor to appease him, but I fail. I have never been a good liar.
When Connor comes for me the next day, I immediately notice the grim set to his mouth. Instead of going to the room as usual, he leads me outside to a van. He gets up front with the driver, and I am placed in the backseat. There is a wire cage separating the front seat from the back. There is room for at least ten more people in the van, but we are the only riders. The empty seat belts click against one another as we bounce over the road. Connor has not said a word. I want to ask if we are visiting Glen again, but I am afraid to speak.
We go a different direction than when we visited Glen, and soon we are beyond the city limits. My heart rate picks up as the van approaches a tall chain-link fence, topped with razor wire. An imposing concrete building rises behind it, and there are high towers stationed across the area.
“I don’t know how to get through to you, Clara,” Connor finally says from the front seat. “I don’t want to send you overnight, but you need to understand what’s at stake.”
“What is this?” I ask, my voice small.
“The women’s state prison.”
Panic floods my veins. We pull up to the guard station, and after the guard confirms the identity of the driver, the gate creaks open. As it shuts behind us, my lungs stop taking in air. I cannot breathe.
“Put your head between your legs, Clara,” Connor says, his voice calm and even. “Try to take deep, slow breaths.”
“She okay?” the driver asks.
“She’ll be fine,” Connor responds.
“Should I pull over?”
“No, keep going.”
I unhook my seat belt and lean over. Spots dance in my vision. It is not helping.
Finally the van halts. The side door flies open and Connor is there. “Breathe, Clara, come on,” he says, patting my back. His presence is a comfort, and I find my breath. Tears fall on the carpet in front of me. I cannot do this. I cannot be here.
“I knew it would be too much,” Connor mutters to himself. I pretend not to hear.
Soon I am breathing normally again, but no amount of deep breathing will calm the shaking of my hands. I lean heavily on Connor as he helps me out of the van. He releases me and makes me walk on my own unsteady legs toward the squat brown building leading into the prison.
A guard stationed at the door looks me over and then glances behind me. “Pick her up at three,” he says. I look back and realize that Connor is still by the van. He nods and takes out his phone without giving me another glance. I feel abandoned. I feel lost. My legs start to give out again.
“Whoa there, little lady,” says the guard, catching my elbow. “Don’t let them see you like this. You’ll never make it if you do.”
Them? Who? Make what? I don’t want to make it here. I want to go back to my private room and curl on my narrow mattress and scream into my thin pillow. I want to run and find Glen and have him gather me up and tell me everything will be okay.
I remember how Glen clung to me when I visited him. He has been in prison this whole time. For the first time, Glen looked to me to be strong. I stand up straighter. Glen trusts me to do what I need to in order to get us out of this. He is counting on me not to give in, not to let them break me. One day. I can do anything for one day. And if I do well, perhaps they will let me see Glen again. I position his face squarely at the front of my mind as I take the final steps to the door, which a guard holds open for me.
I wink at the guard and stride forward into the building, leaving him behind with a baffled expression. Good. I stop short when I enter the building, unsure of where to go.
“You here for the day?” a plump woman with tightly curled hair asks.
“I-I think so?”
She points to a door.
“Through there. They’ll process ya.”
Process? I take a hesitant step toward the door. “Will it hurt?” I ask, turning back to the woman. There is a chuckle from one of the people sitting in the molded plastic chairs. I scan the room, but cannot figure out who finds me funny.
The woman eyes me. “Only if you don’t follow directions. Can you follow directions?”
I nod.
“Then you’ll be fine. And you’ll be glad to be leaving at the end of the day.”
I take a deep breath and walk into a nightmare.
Then
I dread Thanksgiving every year, and this time is no exception. Mama tries to make it festive, a time for the family to gather and enjoy one another, but there is a constant underlying tension between Glen and Papa, a push and pull that never quite lets up.
We sit at the enormous table in Mama and Papa’s large home. They bought the house after things picked up with Glen’s business and Papa retired. Well, he said he retired, but he still has fingers in all aspects of the business, and even insists on accompanying Glen on trips, which is a source of constant frustration for Glen.
“I said I would take care of the Smith situation,” Glen says now, his tone conversational, but tight. “There was no need for you to get involved.”
“He’s an old friend,” Papa says, the warning in his tone less disguised. “I called in a favor. Don’t make this a big deal, Glen.”
Glen slams a fist on the table. “It is a big deal.” I place a hand on his knee, but he moves away. Mama notices the interaction and sends me a sympathetic look. “Your old colleagues can’t assume that you will step in on all of our deals. How are they supposed to respect me if my daddy undermines me at every turn?”
“Watch your tone, boy,” Papa says, his breathing growing ragged. He has been having more difficulty lately with his lungs, though he refuses the oxygen the doctor has suggested. The struggle becomes more pronounced when he is agitated, which is often around Glen.
Mama reaches toward Papa. “Take deep breaths,” she says.
He swats her hand away. “I’m fine. Don’t be a nag.”
I look down at my hands, twisting together in my lap. I feel a tap on my foot below the table and look up to meet Joel’s eyes. He sits across from me, as he has every year since we began our little family tradition. His eyes swing back to his plate, and he remains silent, but the corners of his mouth are tipped up in amusement. Instead of becoming uncomfortable in these situations, Joel seems to thrive. It is unnerving how much he enjoys seeing others implode, and I have suspicions that he helps the process along whenever he can.
Glen seethes beside me, but even he can see how an argument would affect Papa’s breathing. Papa may not back down, but Glen always will, if only to keep his father breathing a few days more. Though they bicker, there is plenty of mutual respect between the two men.
“So, Clara,” Papa says. “I hear you have some good news to share.”
I shoot a look at Glen. We were keeping it a secret this time, until I started to show. The last time we announced the baby, we lost it within a week. I do not want to jinx it. Glen gives me an almost imperceptible shrug. Some things he has no problem keeping from Papa. My secrets, however, are fair game.
“Yes, sir, we are expecting around June or July of next year. I have not been to the doctor yet, so it’s just an estimate.”
Mama beams. “How exciting. Although I don’t think we’re old enough to be grandparents.” She nudges Papa, who gives her a grudging smile before turning his laser gaze back to me.
“And how will being pregnant affect your work?”
My brow furrows. “It won’t, sir. I mean, of course, when the baby comes, some adjustments will need to be made, but until then—”
“What sort of adjustments?”
This time it’s Glen’s hand that finds my knee, giving me comfort as I fumble for an answer. I want to swat him away, as he rebuffed me earlier. I am only in this position because he could not keep our secret. But, as usual, I cannot shy away from Glen’s touch. I lean into him, and his hand moves from my knee to loop around my shoulders.
“During the pregnancy, I will be training Passion and at least one of the other older girls to help with some of the more important tasks.”
Papa scoffs. “Passion. That little pet of yours should have been gone long ago.”
“She’s only fourteen,” I say.
“She’s untrainable.”
I sit up, ignoring the increased pressure of Glen’s hand on my shoulder. “She does everything I ask her.”
“Yes,” Papa says. “Everything you ask her. But she is downright belligerent to anyone else who tries to give her an order. How do you expect a client to take that on?”
“If a client could not handle her, how could we have possibly gotten rid of her?”
Papa raises his eyebrows, taking a bite as he waits for the answer to come to me.
My heart stutters. “You can’t put her there.”
“They could tame her.”
“No.”
He shrugs. Glen clears his throat and I jump. I had forgotten anyone else was there. I am surprised that both Glen and Papa let me speak so forcefully for so long. I will pay for it later, I am sure.
“Clara has a tight hold on the girl,” Glen says. “She is quite helpful, and I see no reason to get rid of her, especially with the baby coming. I have every confidence that she will be helpful both with the other girls and in helping with the baby when Clara is . . . indisposed.”
I swallow hard, understanding his meaning. My thoughts race as I try to figure out how Glen will deal with me while I carry his child. We will have to come to an agreement. I must protect this baby.
“Glen,” Papa begins. “I really think—”
“It’s not your call, Father,” Glen says, picking up his wineglass and taking a large drink. Topic closed.
“Very well,” Papa says, leaning back in his chair. I can tell from the look in his eyes that this conversation is far from over, but I know I will not be witness to the rest of it. I have already overstepped.
The rest of the meal is finished in silence. I help Mama clean while the men have an after-dinner drink, and then we join them. Mama fixes me a special tea that she tells me keeps nausea away. She made it last time as well, and I resist wrinkling my nose before taking the first sip. I remember the bitter taste, but I hide my disgust and drink the entire cup. She hands me a tin before we leave, reminding me to drink one cup a day. I know she will check next time they are over, and it does seem to help, so I accept the gift with a smile.
Our drive home is silent, and I am surprised when Glen only kisses me good night and turns off the light. No lecture. No punishment. Maybe this baby will be good for us in more ways than one.
• • •
Good things never last. This is what I have learned. When I wake up in the middle of the night two weeks later, stickiness running down my thighs, the metallic smell of blood in the air, I already know my baby is gone.
Now
My lip curls as I study the food on the tray in front of me. If it can be called food. A river of grease runs from the pile of meat, pooling at the corners of the compartment. Rubbery green beans give off a questionable odor, and I can see flakes of something unrecognizable in the mashed potatoes.
“Big day today, meat and potatoes! They always roll out the big guns for the vizzies.” A large woman drops into the seat next to mine. She leans in. “And you better eat it, or you may not make it home this afternoon in the same condition you got here.”
I jerk my eyes toward her. She motions in the direction of the kitchen, where an imposing woman stands, watching me. It is possible this woman is messing with me, trying to scare me, but I don’t want to risk it. I take a tentative bite, controlling my gag reflex as I swallow the chewy meat. I manage a s
mile at the woman in the kitchen. She smiles back. I keep eating until she turns her attention elsewhere.
My lunch companion laughs. “Nice work, vizzie.”
“Vizzie?”
“Visitors. Short-term ladies. Although”—her eyes scan my body—“I wouldn’t mind if you stuck around.”
Her gaze makes me uncomfortable, but I try not to let it show. “I’m Clara,” I say.
“Marge. I killed my husband.”
I choke on the soupy potatoes. Marge laughs as I lunge for my milk, washing the obstruction from my throat.
“That’s . . . nice,” I say, unable to think of a better response.
“It really was,” Marge says, a dreamy look taking over her face. “I’d do it again, too. Bastard.”
I nod, trying to look sympathetic.
“Those your girls?” Marge asks, indicating the group of teenage girls at the next table.
I shrug. “I guess.” The girls were from some “scare ’em straight” program and had been with me since the morning. We were “processed” together, which consisted of being strip-searched, fingerprinted, photographed, and given the standard gray jumpsuit that would be our uniform for the day.
The warden had given us a tour of the facilities, and then set some of the inmates loose on us. They walked us through work detail, screaming the entire way. I spent the morning with Glen’s face at the forefront of my mind. He was the reason I was doing all this. I would go through this every day if I could protect him.
“You’re a little old, ain’t you?” Marge asked.
“I’m not with their program. Just along for the ride.”
“What’d they get you for?”
“They want me to give them information.”
“What sort of information?”
I shrug. I’ve said enough. Marge doesn’t push, and we finish the meal in silence. As I scrape up the last of my potatoes and force them into my mouth, there is a commotion at the table behind us.