Fall - A Collection of Short Stories (Almond Press Short Story Contest)

by Corrina Austin

  According to my boyfriend, Thierry, an account was created in my name to filter cash advances from the corporate credit accounts we were in charge of. During an audit investigation, a few days before, apparently Axelle had claimed innocence. She had suggested that given my family’s history, perhaps the debts and expenses my father had been incurring caused me to go rogue. The second layer of shock and sweat came with the accusation: I had been withdrawing thousands of funds, regularly. Clearly, Axelle had set me up with the last few hundred dollars as proof of my culpability.

  Kanmarads fe pann—comrades can hang you, they say in Haiti. They also say Haitians are like crabs trying to climb out of a bucket. Jealousy will make crabs yank at each other so no one gets ahead. Axelle was a crab.

  My mother, after getting word about the incident, had been my only visitor. My boyfriend, Thierry, had simply arranged that I be placed in a separate cell, alone, while I awaited the judge who would see me in four days.

  For days upon returning from the break outside, I had attempted obsequiously to gain the sympathies of the woman guard. She had a slender build and her cocoa complexion matched her demeanor, dry and bitter. Her brow was set in a constant look of disdain. She continually rejected my simple requests by sucking her teeth and calling me bourgeois.

  A satisfied grin curled her lips as she shoved the bent bowl with the side of her boot, across the stagnant stream of urine through the cell opening. I took my bowl and retreated to the far corner. I dipped my fingers in the torn bread chunks macerated in broth, knowing she purposely held back the spoon.

  This time, she chewed her words when she spoke. “Unh, look at you! Privileged cell. Did you think you were going to get a menu? You’re holding the bread as if you’re handling the wing of a wounded bird. I am the chief now! Look at your hair! Now you can’t mask that it is as nappy as mine.”

  Every exchange had a bite, lashing out deep-rooted grudges that had been enslaving the island for generations.

  The midday Wednesday sunrays sliced the apology for a cell, marking a severe line across the dusty floor. The threadbare cover lay slumped over the mat across from me. From the shaded corner, I watched dust particles dance with charcoal flakes. The swirling sweet and savory odors outside were violently interrupted by the stench of fecal slush being scraped along the gutter by a guard with a stiff palm frond broom.

  I got up and started pacing, anticipating outdoor time. I caught glimpses of the run in my stocking every other step, in disbelief with the state of my silk blouse my mother always found flattering.

  A different set of boots came into my line of view. A young male guard responded to my false geniality. He plopped onto the rickety folding chair facing the cell, a phone and gun hanging off his belt.

  “Aren’t you tired?” he asked after a while, sounding annoyed.

  I spoke breathlessly, squeezing my words through pouted lips. “Of which part of the day?”

  The chair creaked when he leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees.

  I ran my hand over the side of head, smoothing my fallen curls. I continued floating my words. “Please,” I pleaded, “Do you think I could borrow a piece of soap?”

  “For what?”

  “On Friday I meet with the judge.” I made little circles with my hands under my arms, “I would like to fè yon jan.” I made a face to exaggerate my need to spruce up. “Don’t go out of your way. If you get a chance, like when you bring the meal, then maybe, if you find something…” I clasped my hands, enclosing hope, testing the power of being a woman.

  Later, when he placed the metal bowl on the inside of the cell, my fingers felt the slime of a small piece of used soap the size of a pink eraser suctioned underneath. I placed my hand on my chest and lowered my eyes, elated. Soupy because it was fresh, I raked through the cornmeal, shoveling as much as I could with the boiled chicken foot given as a spoon.

  I sat for a little while staring at the guard before I began my birdbath. First, I scrubbed the slit of soap under my armpits. I rubbed the crumbling piece along my teeth, and scraped my tongue with my upper teeth like a cat does who tries to remove a wayward strand. The guard stretched out his tall cup of water to me from a seated position. “To rinse,” he said.

  “Aah, mon chè, God will bless you.” I cupped some water in the hand that held the soap to wash my face and hide my smile. I unrolled the mat against the gate acting unaffected of his gaze. I bent behind the screen to remove my blouse and threaded it through two rungs of the gate. I discreetly removed my panties, flipped inside out twice since the first day, then squatted behind my “screen.” I let a handful of water cascade behind my nape, moving quickly using my panties as a wash cloth, to rub my neck, under my breasts, my thighs, and then timed a quick swipe of my vagina while letting the water that pooled between my legs absorb into the panties. I scrubbed my panties with a bit of soap and more water. I patted myself dry with the inside of my blouse before hanging it along the vertical support bar of the gate. Standing before the guard in a camisole and wrinkled pencil skirt, I placed my panties to dry on the overturned bowl. I rolled the mat.

  “Are you giving me the rest of this water as a gift?” I said.

  “Take it.”

  I now felt secure in using endearing words. “Merci, ti cheri!” I said as wrapped the remaining bit of soap in a square of toilet paper.

  I returned to my corner, sat, tucked my skirt between my thighs and took a quick peek at my pumps. I fast-forwarded to the quiet hours, envisioning hammering my heel in his eye socket if he took my flirty smiles too seriously.

  I waited until the chanting voices and laments settled, until the edges of my bath puddle started receding. The guard pulled a book he had tucked behind him, folded back the beginning pages and held it in one hand. I waited until he perused fifty pages. After the moon had fully relieved the sun, I casually exchanged names with Sepame. I questioned him about the female guard, his family, his Southwestern hometown of Cayes, and how feasible it was to receive guests. Even later, when the rats felt safe to scurry across the metal roof, I asked the favor of borrowing his cell phone.

  Thierry crept in before dawn. There was sheen on his forehead when he patted my hand robotically through the bars instead of kissing me. His twisted face looked over my shoulder at the moldy mat. “Is this the private cell?”

  I pictured him parking his car blocks away. No doubt he nervously whipped his head back when he got to the prison gate. Chances are he even whispered to the guard when he mentioned the purpose of his visit. At least there was a sliver of allegiance, I thought.

  “How are my parents?” I asked. “My mom was supposed to visit yesterday and I couldn’t reach her.”

  He slid me a small paper package he had in his other hand. It resembled a brick sealed tight in layers of mailing tape. “Your dad had another issue.” He whispered even though Sepame, allowed us some privacy.

  “Thank you for finally stopping by.”

  Thierry rushed his words. “I have been working on it, Frederique.”

  “I didn’t think I was going to spend an afternoon in this repugnant hole. Where have you been?”

  “The chief had orders.”

  “And?” I asked.

  “My lawyer friend Stephan is on it.”

  “Lawyer?”

  “The circumstances are more complicated.”

  Thierry spaced his words as if making excuses for loopholes, as if allowing slack for a noose.

  “Where’s Axelle?” I asked. I could feel my hands getting sweaty.

  “Ssh. Look. Your boss and the judge are brothers. I suppose you weren’t aware that Axelle is your boss’ mistress?”

  “So they’re all involved!”

  Thierry made a disgusted face. “I doubt it.”

  “But it incriminates a
ll of them!”

  “My friend will work something out for you on Monday.”

  “Monday? I meet with Judge Pierre tomorrow,” I said.

  “He’s not going to see you,” Thierry said deadpan.

  “Why not?” My clenched hands slid down the bars.

  “He’s going to be sick.”

  “And how do you know this beforehand? Isn’t there another judge available?”

  “They will be out sick too, with Judge Pierre on Stefan’s catamaran, fishing in La Gonave. They will be back late Sunday. Stefan will be working on it. Trust me,” Thierry said.

  “So, if no one in charge is minding the store, then...” I made a motion with my hands imitating leafing through money.

  He met my eyes for the first time. He knew to what I was referring, but his eyes said he was not going to help me escape. “It takes a lot of money to create blindness and amnesia.”

  “So it seems.”

  His mouth twisted. “How much are those rehab centers?”

  His comment was received in silence.

  Thierry eyes shot a glance at the package. “Yes, well, do you have all you need?”

  To which I replied with a cracked voice, “To last for days.”

  He patted the sides of my upper arm with stiff hands, preemptively squaring my shoulders, then left.

  I will miss another Saturday morning produce shopping and Sunday morning coffee with my mother. Sepame resumed his position on his exhausted folding chair. I waited a long while before opening my package. My mother had packed a hairbrush, toothbrush, wipes, panties, and nail polish. Wrapped in a note, under the panties, was a half-inch stack of our reserved money. I rolled the lip of the bag closed with my chipped nails, and sat back into my corner to read the note. And cry.

  Loosely formed groups of wilted women were pushed off their haunches with rifles and scattered back along the perimeter of the yard to set the stage for a group that arrived. My heels scratched along the pavement, having lost their heel caps. It was Sunday, the day before my release date. The ominous rusted gate screeched along the rails as two guards strained against it, and a truckload roared under the weight of its cargo over the threshold. The guards with a balcony view aimed their rifles toward the back ramp of the truck. The women were corralled to the far end where a receiving guard counted them; another shoved them into an awaiting cell. The show ended and I resumed by pacing.

  Sepame had left a cup of water for me when I was escorted to the cell. I used some wipes to clean my pumps and dirt off my skirt. I was contemplating my mother’s suggestion about moving after my release. She didn’t want to leave the country, just relocate where our topic wasn’t the common thread among social gatherings. A trance like smile spread across my face. I could see my mother sitting in an open gallery, her boney fingers idly adjusting her gold bracelets, rotating the clasp to hang downwards.

  My menial activities continued as I twisted my pantyhose so the tears could run along my inner thigh, making them less visible. I massaged my scalp with my brush for the first time in a week. I shingled sheets of toilet paper in a narrow patch, needing a proper night’s rest before my meeting with the judge at eight. My exhausted body shut down in a cushioned descent through a dark hole filled with warmth, formal porcelain ware my mother insisted on using every Sunday, buffet meals, fresh clothes, large beds and hot showers. In my dream, I could feel my face relaxing, my tongue weighing down my jaw, and my neck muscles elongate with the falling of my shoulders.

  I awoke with a start, when I felt a dull poking at my hipbone.

  “Vini!” The woman guard yelled pulling back her rifle.

  I blinked wildly, sitting up. I checked for my package against my waistband. A palm slapped my back. I reached for the cup and dabbed two fingers in the water to freshen my face. My upper arm was yanked up. Shakily, I put on my heels, stood up and smoothed my hair. My breath quickened when I left the cell. A thin layer of moisture spread under my arms and along my spine. I hooded my eyes against the brightness as I entered the courtyard. I saw another guard standing nearby.

  “Un an!” The guard behind me flung out to the other. She discarded me with a final push.

  I turned. “What?” I felt the skin on my cracked lips tear. “A year for what?”

  I tried grabbing her arm. She flinched back, and pointed her rifle at me. A smug look hooked the edges of her lips, as did her finger on the trigger guard.

  My scalp and skin pricked. The sun intensified. Moisture evaporated from my mouth and a cotton ball felt like it constricted my throat. My vision narrowed on a man with a salmon colored shirt and briefcase striding from the gate, his hand stretched out his hand midway before reaching me.

  “I’m Stephan.”

  “She just said a year!” A bead of sweat stung the crack on my lower lip. “Aren’t we meeting Judge Pierre today?”

  Stephan flashed a smile that seemed practiced for a different setting. “I’ll see what more I can do.”

  “That’s what you were supposed to be doing!” I gesticulated wildly. “I can’t stay here!”

  “Frederique, I tried.”

  The guard gestured with her rifle for me to walk across the yard.

  “Wait! Wait!” One hand curled around his tie, the other grabbed Stephan’s shirt collar. My eyes welled. “Why couldn’t you ask him to have mercy? I can move if it means saving the judge’s face!” My fingers gripped more fabric when I saw more guards approaching. Stephan held up a hand, but walked in the direction the guard was heading. My heels twisted on the concrete from walking backward.

  “I can talk to the judge, but your father owes him money too, doesn’t he?”

  I leaned into him, whispering, “Look, I have money.” My eyes cut down the waistband of my skirt. Stephan looked, but his eyes were more concerned with the state of his shirt.

  I stood on tippy toes, trying to catch his eyes. “Please, let’s work something out, you and me.” My forearms pushed against him. “How much money do you think? I have more saved at home. You can ask my mom! I know you can pay someone to turn his or her head! I’ll disappear, I swear.” Tears streamed from my jaw. “You know, I don’t belong in here!” I wiped ribbons of phlegm from my nose. “Just the smell alone in this labyrinth of squalor...” You don’t understand. When they sweep the gutters...” The memory had a bubble of bile threatening to erupt.

  “Frederique, your family…” Stephan let the words fade.

  It was unnecessary to repeat what my mother had already informed. The branches of appearances and social status extended far. The roots of money can tangle and bury you. The local paper had denounced my family, my father’s dirty secrets, now including gambling. Even the last of the closest circle of friends had averted their eyes, pursed their lips. My mother was saving the remainder of the money to organize our reestablishment on the Northern coast of the island. The note from her also read, “It is best you keep some money as well, for safekeeping. Hang in there for a few days. I will pack. Just this once, we will have to take the bus. Be ready to leave immediately after the courthouse on Monday. Love, Manmy.”

  Stephan spoke his words to the different clouds passing by. “Don’t give me all your money now. Let me find out how much you’ll need first.”

  I turned my head to see we had reached the opposite end of the courtyard. Sunken eyes watched me, their bodies boxed together like cubes of sugar. I shook my head. The hair on my arms repelled from my skin.

  The following motions changed as if moving through molasses. I could feel Stephan slowly peeling my fingers away from his shirt. I heard the gate open in a rusted yawn. I stood there. A guard swiveled my shoulder with the tip of her rifle. My body was shoved into the crowded cell.

  I felt the gates against my back, heard the turning of the lock. Despair and dejectio
n weighed my head down. Stephan would not be back. Asshole. I rubbed against the wall to the closest corner. The walls were moist and gritty. The floor was slippery with an underlying slime of crushed roach guts. The offensive odors were unavoidable. My chest felt tight. I slid down onto my hunches. The heat and condensed unhygienic odors rolled in my mouth and throat. My head jerked to the side with last night’s meal erupting down my arm and thigh. The sallow looking woman next to me barely shifted when she received a spray of vomit. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, flicking the phlegm on another inmate.

  I never slept. There was always been an arm or skeletal leg pressed all around me. My tears were incessant. I squatted. I stood. I dangled from the fringes of reality.

  By the third morning, I finally fought for my ration, a chunk of bread. I traded my spare panties for a scarf after the fifth morning, knowing days only because I had pulled rubber tips off my brush as acknowledgment of another sunset survived. My depressive whimpering continued. My anxiety spiraled and suicidal scenes kept making cameos in my haze.

  It was our time outside on the ninth sunrise of my remaining three hundred and fifty-six day sentence. I loped around staring at the flip-flops I traded the brush for, on the sixth day, wiggling my toes against the dirty print outline of its previous owner.

  There were noises at the gate. A guard stepped away to stack cases of delivered water. My eyes narrowed. The opening was wide enough for a body to slip sideways. My mother was standing there. My breathing quickened. I felt for the bag I now kept tucked under my camisole strap.

  Fumbling with the lip, I reached in, crumbling one paper in my hand, then, deliberately dropping it.

  Trembling, I weaved away from the group. I sprinkled more papers. In the corner of my eye, I saw some guards bending to confirm the fifty-dollar denominations.

  The crowd thickened around the guards in realization. Quickly, my hand grabbed a fistful of bills. I threw my arms up in a wide plea releasing bills like butterflies in the wind.