The Oshkosh Trilogy 01 - The Dark Lake

by Anthea Carson

  I lay there in the half-light for a while and then the silent officer man brought a very young black girl to my cell and took out his big set of keys and undid her cuffs and gave her a tin cup too, and a blanket. She slunk over to the bunk, pulled down the mattress, tossed it carelessly against the wall, and lay down.

  "Damn fuckers left me in there—took forever. Dey took you right off. Fuck's up with that?"

  I had hoped she was asleep the few minutes she'd lain silent. I tried not responding. A minute or two more went by and then, "Fuck's up, huh?"

  "I don't know."

  "Hell you don't.” She rolled over and faced away from me. She mumbled something else, but I didn't know what it was.

  "I heard they said it was because I was white."

  At this she turned her head to look at me. Then she put her head back down.

  "They said you didn't even know why you was brought in,” and at this she started giggling to herself.

  "It's true, I didn't, but then I asked them what I had done and they told me. I must've been in a total blackout when the cops cuffed me and put me in the back of their car. I don't remember any of it,” I said.

  "You were sure talkin' a lot when they first brought you in,” she said, still laughing.

  "Really? What did I say?"

  "Shit, girl? You was screamin' you was dead and shit like that."

  "Saying I was dead?"

  "Yep."

  I started to remember something. I could see the image of the cop, standing tall and blue. I remember lying on the floor of the bar.

  "Did I say anybody's name?"

  "Kept talkin' to some people that weren't there, I can't remember their names, they had weird names. I think one of them was Gay."

  She was starting to sound sleepy. Some of the memories were indeed coming back. Lying on a beer-soaked floor, talking to them, even though I knew they couldn't be there. I shuddered to think what I must have looked like to everyone.

  Then did I snort that coke? Did they say I'd had any drugs in my system? Surely they would have tested for that. And then what would have happened? Did they arrest me for that too?

  "What are you in here for?” I asked.

  She glared at me in response to this.

  After a while they brought us both a little brown sack with breakfast in it, and a cup of coffee.

  "Is this caffeinated?” I asked.

  "Yep,” the officer answered.

  "Oh thank God,” I muttered.

  "What'd they give us?” she asked, holding the paper sack way up in the air above her resting self.

  "Um,” I began to rummage through the bag, "there is a little box of Frosted Flakes, a little carton of milk, a plastic bowl …"

  "They give us a spoon?"

  "Yep."

  "Coffee too?"

  "Yep."

  She sat up and opened her sack.

  We sat crunching our sleepy cereal and stared vacantly at the wall.

  When breakfast was finished, we crumpled up our sacks and sat silently for a moment.

  Then she said, "They better come get us or I'll miss the hearing this morning. I can't be missin' that!"

  I went and lay back down in my metal tray with the blue mat.

  She said it a few more times—that they better not let her miss the hearing—and then she got up and started ringing the buzzer.

  "Hey,” she yelled.

  There was, of course, no response.

  "Hey,” she tapped hard on my shoulder. "Get up and ring that buzzer, yell for him, get him down here,” she demanded.

  I lay there staring up at the human-sized, metal tray above me, trying to think of an answer.

  "He'll get us there in time, don't worry,” I answered, affecting a bored tone.

  "No he won't.” She wrestled around a bit more back on her mat, apparently intending to get some rest while she put me on the task of harassing the officer.

  I waited a moment. Even shut my eyes.

  "Get up and ring that buzzer,” she insisted.

  "Don't worry about it. They will get us to court in time. They have to."

  "No they don't,” she said. "Get up and ring it."

  I walked over and rang it one time and lay back down.

  "Ring it again!"

  "Just relax it's going to be all right,” I said.

  She huffed around on her mat and tossed a few more times and kicked her foot out and hit the crunched-up sack.

  "Ring it."

  I got up and buzzed the buzzer.

  "Do it again."

  I buzzed it one more time and then she yelled, "Hey, come get us or we're gonna miss court!"

  An officer hurried over to us, and when he saw me he demanded to know why I kept hitting the buzzer. I tried to explain myself, and she kept perfectly silent.

  "Stop buzzing that thing,” he shouted in my face.

  After that she began snoring and I lay there staring at the metal tray above my head. After about a half hour we were both brought up to another holding cell, this one tremendously crowded. There was one metal toilet sitting center stage. If you used it, not only could all the women see you, but also there were men who could see from across the hall.

  "I got up and I shoved him like this," a very tall, skinny woman stood up and mock shoved, and then, frustrated with no one to demonstrate on said, "Hey, you, get up. I wanna show 'em what I mean."

  I pointed to myself.

  "Yeah, you. Get up,” and with that she grabbed me by the shoulders and put a knee in my back, demonstrating how she had shoved whoever it was.

  Then she laughed and laughed and all the girls in there laughed at how she had shoved him.

  "What’d he do then, girl?"

  "Oh man, he turn around and say 'hey you bitch’.” She howled with laughter. They all did.

  "Dat why you in here?” one of them asked,

  "Hell no, that bastard wouldn't dare narc on me; no I in here for no insurance."

  "You kiddin' me,” a couple of them said.

  "No,” the tall lanky one sat down. "I ain't done nothin' wrong in eighteen months. Dat's the longest for me, man. Can't wait to get home and see my little girl."

  "When I get outta here, I'm gonna get my cousin, I'm gonna fuck her up," one of them said.

  "Be careful what you say in here," said the tall, lanky one.

  "She the one that stole your identity?" said another one.

  "All my credit cards, my driver's license; I get pulled over and accused of something she did with my license."

  "What are you in here for?” asked the girl next to me.

  "I threw a brick into a tavern."

  They all cracked up laughing.

  "She funny, that girl,” said my former cellmate. “I kept buzzing the officer and she kept going, be cool man, it'll be fine man; she a riot."

  "You gonna do time in county, you think?"

  "I don't know, I hope not. What's it like in there?” I asked.

  "It's nasty, but it's like anyplace."

  "What do you mean?”

  "You know, days pass, some people are nice, some are bad, you know, but you gotta stand up for yourself in there," my former cellmate said. "You gotta let ‘em know you ain’t takin' shit."

  "They'll probably let you off; this your first offense?" another girl asked.

  "Yeah,” I said.

  "You'll get off I bet, if it wasn't too bad. Was anyone hurt?"

  I'd never thought of that.

  "I don't even remember what happened. I was drunk."

  This set them off on a whole new diatribe of drunk stories, one topping another. They had a lot of remember-when’s and was-you-there's? They went on for quite a while with this. Then this segued into other issues, like their own particular issues at trial, and what would they say to the judge. One had it all planned out. She would cry at just the right time. Always worked, she swore. They kept high-fiving each other.

  I took some kind of plea bargain when my turn came (first of
course), and agreed to some classes and assault on my record, and a one-year probation. I would have to come back here and meet with an officer once a month.

  I waited for my mom to pick me up in the courthouse waiting room. When she got there, I had to try to figure out where the car was. Once I did, I told her I was too afraid to drive, and didn't think I could make it. She said we would leave it there and try to get it later. I told her I'd lost my job, and that I think I needed to see Miriam. She seemed to soften up, and the drive home wasn't too unpleasant.

  "Mom," I began. "I want to get help. I know something is wrong with me."

  "We'll get you some help,” she said, choking back a sob.

  "I'm trying. Or, at least I was."

  "Maybe this will be a real turning point."

  "I just want to know one thing, Mom. Why are they dragging the car out of the lake?"

  There was an uncomfortable pause.

  "Talk to Miriam about that. I'm in over my head."

  The drive home was quiet after that.

  I had a few peaceful weeks. I went back to AA. I was told I would need to be taking a drug test monthly, or weekly I guess. I said all the usual things at the meetings about how I had a slip, and how it was no different out there.

  I was actually glad to be there. And I could sense the pressure was off about me getting a job, too. In fact, my mom started talking about how I might qualify for disability.

  I took to sleeping a lot, and watching a lot of TV. I went to my weekly anger-management class. I had to jump through some hoops to get them located in Oshkosh as opposed to Milwaukee, but in the end I ended up really liking them. The guy who ran them seemed genuine, and he seemed to want to help. And I also had to take an alcohol class.

  Things were beginning to stabilize.

  10

  During the first few anger-management classes I kept arguing with the teacher. After a few weeks I began to settle in, even learn a few things.

  Among other things, I learned that Angela—a woman with long, red hair down to her fat ass—had a worse anger problem than I did. I learned that she was completely in denial about her temper as well. And I learned that Colleen—a pretty, young blonde with a ponytail—had a serious drinking problem. In fact, she passed out while driving with her two kids, all under three years old, in the car, and she was going to lose her kids if she didn't straighten up her act.

  The patience of my moderator never ceased to amaze me. I could actually see myself doing his job. It was a thought that made me regret, once again, that I had never finished high school. I even thought about taking my GED and going on to college. But it was just a thought.

  We had a handout we read. It had a lot of interesting things in it, like how to appropriately assess your values.

  It made me ask myself, “How did I assess my values?” I was deep in thought about this, so deep in fact that I had to be called on twice when it was my turn to share about it, just like when I was in elementary school.

  "Oh me? Um, yeah. I've actually been thinking about that. I appreciate the question. I wonder. Something seems to be really wrong with my values. My priorities. It's like I don't have any?” I don't know why I formed this as a question.

  "Would you like to elaborate on that?"

  "Sure, sure, uh … Well, I know I'd really like to get a job. And keep it. But then I do things…"

  "Like what?"

  "Well, like what got me here in the first place…"

  "I know what ya mean,” Angela interrupted. "I got the same problem, like my husband Jerry? He won't get off his ass and look for a job. He sits around playin' video games all day. And I got a two-year-old kid still in diapers …"

  "Jane? Would you like to expand on–"

  "And he tells me the other day, he tells me—when I was just coming in the door—that he don't think it's a good use of his time to look for a job. I said a good use of your time? You got to be kidding me!"

  "I can't get a break here,” I interjected.

  Angela looked at me, her eyes popping a little bit, just taking a few seconds from her diatribe to notice my insolence it seemed.

  "He asked me the…"

  "How dare you, lady? I paid just as much money to be here as you did and I—” Her head swayed side to side in little rhythmic jerks.

  "I have not even had a chance to speak. He asked me about my priorities—"

  "I am not gonna take this shit from her—" said Angela.

  "My priority is to get the fuck outta here—” said a woman—Lou, I think her name was—who rarely spoke at all. "Can we get this shit on the road?"

  "I'm trying to—" I tried to say.

  "All I know is I don't wanna sit here and listen to you two argue it out any more; I'm sick of listening to you—" said Lou.

  The moderator said nothing, except that it was time to go.

  I didn't mind the classes, even with these interchanges. They broke up the week for me. I felt busier and more productive at least. On Mondays and Thursdays I had therapy, on Tuesdays Anger Management, on Wednesdays AA, and on Fridays I had to drive to Milwaukee for my probation appointment. That one I hated.

  It was downtown during peak traffic, and I had trouble finding my way around. Then I had to pay for parking, and it was a lot of quarters, and it looked like I might have to run out and feed the meter during the session.

  Her office was on the third floor. I took the stairs to avoid any potential problems, like the elevator getting stuck or something.

  Then when I met her I was shocked by her behavior.

  "The sun's in my eyes, could I close the blinds?” I said as I stood up to close them for her. You'd have thought I pulled a gun on her.

  "I'll get my own blinds, thank you.” She stood up, ready to knock me down. I sat back in my chair, blown back.

  "What'd I do? Nothing? I don't get it."

  "You seem very nervous. What is the matter with you?"

  "Nothing. I just don't get why you got so upset when I got up to close the blinds. I mean … I was just trying to help."

  "I am not the one who is upset. I was never upset," she yelled.

  "Oh, okay,” I said.

  "What's the eye-roll about?" she asked.

  "Nothing."

  "You need to calm down," she shouted.

  "Okay I will!” I nearly shouted myself.

  On my way out of there, I was literally shaking. "What'd I do?” I kept muttering to myself. And then when I got to my car it turned out I had a parking ticket, too.

  I drove home from Milwaukee thinking about my classes and my meetings and my job search and my therapy appointments, and I actually felt pretty good. It seemed like things were looking hopeful. Things were going by fast, my weeks, and my days. So fast the summer was almost over.

  I drove up and parked in the driveway and walked inside the house. My dad was mowing the front lawn. He was wearing these brown and white plaid shorts and a silly, yellow baseball cap. I laughed out loud to see him. He couldn't hear me over the lawn mower so I just went inside.

  11

  I had a good talk with my mom, and we drank iced tea and looked out at the backyard. He had already mowed that one. It was such a huge one, and it looked wonderful when freshly mowed. We talked about how therapy was going, and she seemed really encouraging. She didn't ask about job-hunting at all. But the subject of money still came up.

  "We need to think about you getting down to the social services office and applying for disability."

  "What? I can't believe you think I'm disabled."

  "It's nothing to be ashamed of."

  "Why do you think it?"

  My gaping jaw probably made me look really stupid, even more stupid than I was feeling.

  "Oh, come on Jane, just get it, you're entitled to it. It wouldn't mean you couldn't work."

  "I can't believe it. I can't believe you would say this to me."

  "Miriam will vouch for the fact that you can't work. You can't work."

  On t
he one hand, I loved hearing the words 'you can't work'; but on the other hand, it made me want to cry.

  "I just need to get my high-school diploma,” I argued.

  "That's ridiculous."

  "Then a GED. And a college degree."

  "Maybe someday you can think about doing that too. But for right now…"

  I didn't want to hear anymore.

  Disability? This was a first.

  I might as well be in the grave.

  We used to hang around in graveyards at midnight.

  "I think we should get used to lying in graveyards,” Krishna says, lying on her back on Ed Becker's grave, born 1866, died 1928.

  "What difference will that make?” Ziggy asks, after an elongated silence. "Getting used to lying here, no matter how long, will still be the same fraction of eternity."

  More silence. Except for the night owl hooting. He lingers in a leafless tree.

  "True."

  We can, in the silence, also hear cicadas, crickets, and bats.

  "Mine says Millicent Janine Baker, who loved life. Born 1903, died 1964. That's the year I was born,” I say. The moon is full, and it is easy to read the carvings.

  "Mill loved life,” Krishna begins, "and what difference did that make?” Then she begins to giggle softly to herself, as if she alone were in on some joke.

  "And so it passed more quickly I would imagine,” I say.

  "Therefore, the trick is to be miserable, and hate every second of it, and then it will pass very slowly. And you will be very glad when it's over. You will long for it to end," I continue.

  The night has an eerie, dim, yellow glow. The clouds keep passing the ghastly moon. The branches of the trees cuts the midnight bleakness into fractured patterns. The gravestones people the leaf-blown lot like a small town. The wrought-iron fence reminds me of my kitchen. Moonlight reflects off the headstones, and I can even see and read some of the names from gravestones far away. Edna Marie Smyth. Walter Rydell. Clay Cormack. Jay Peter Wilkinson.

  "No,” I sigh. "Unfortunately, no matter how miserable one is, one wants to live forever. Pass me that God-awful Mad Dog."

  "Kind of like, no matter how bad the alcohol tastes, you still want to drink it."

  ***

  "Jane, you already do know what happened at the party,” Miriam said.