From the Chrysalis: a novel

by Karen E. Black

  He wanted to write more letters to the Spectator’s right-wing editor, knee-jerk fascist that he was, or better still to the Globe and Mail, but uncensored kites were expensive to smuggle out. Of all the people he wrote, only Liza could be counted on to reply. On the rare occasion he ran out of subject matter, he read.

  If the prison doctor knew, he would have slipped some sleeping pills into his grub. Not just because inmates were more tractable when they were comatose, but because he’d done much worse. Everybody knew that the croaker was in cahoots with the shrink. Both men loved to prescribe drugs, especially experimental ones. Right now they were involved in a double blind experiment involving Lysergic acid diethylamide, otherwise known as acid, or LSD.

  Dace tapped the shrink for Valium every chance he got, practicing the one good thing he learned in both the Boy Scouts and in prison: be prepared. Doing that made him think about the suicide bombers in World War II. You never knew. In between push-ups, he inched forward on his stomach to check his stash, taped behind his toilet. Good, he thought, counting twenty-six little white pills into his right hand.

  His body felt a little stiff. Christ, he wasn’t even in his mid-twenties and he felt like an old man. He got up to brush his teeth and left the water on until he thought he heard some scuffling.

  It could be rats. The dirty little devils had made quite a ruckus the last time they swarmed. No, his nerves were just bad. Not enough sleep. Better go to bed.

  Looking at the grey army blanket on his cot was enough to make him forget about the noise and think about sex. It had been so long he had almost forgotten how. For a moment, he saw a girl lying there, curled into the wall. She was naked, her feet tangled in his sheet, but a little too still.

  His neighbour Grumpy must have been on the same wavelength. He often was. “Hey, man,” he whispered, hoarse like a man waking up from a dream. “I’ve got a stash of real good shit if you give me your little schoolgirl cousin’s address. When’s she coming again? I’d give my eye teeth to spank her ass.”

  She’s coming tomorrow, Dace thought, but there’s no way she’s seeing you.

  Springing from the bed, he took one step and kicked their shared wall. “Jesus, you’re such a dickhead. Shut the fuck up or I’ll bust through this wall and shut it for you,” he spat. Dace was normally a man of few words, but he would have said more, except he heard another scuffling sound. “Wait. Can you hear that? What the hell’s going on?”

  “Ah, take it easy, it’s nothing, man, nothing. I don’t hear nothing. Nothing ever happens here.”

  Grumpy hadn’t had a visitor for years. The guys got more visitors when they first came in—old schoolmates, old girlfriends, curiosity seekers—but it got harder and harder to look straight people in the eye. Besides, most visitors didn’t come back. They hated the place, all the little indignities even visitors weren’t spared. And Grumpy hadn’t been good company at first. Admissions fog, the goddamn quack had said.

  “Oh, shit happens all right,” Dace said, not surprised when he didn’t get an answer. Grumpy had a habit of conking out the moment he finished talking.

  Across the Dome, Cell Block C was still lit. The last shift should have been back from the recreational area twenty minutes before, but they weren’t. Maybe the guards were having a hard time corralling everybody. He stuck his head between his bars and listened. The noise was more muffled now. Somebody was running. Aw, Jeez, maybe some dumb con was running around to avoid lockup. It happened all the time.

  “Grumpy?” he inquired, but all he got was another snore.

  More running across an upper tier, or maybe it was the roof.

  It’s nothing, he told himself, lacing his fingers together and stretching out his arms. His muscles were a little tight. No wonder; his tendons were shrivelling.

  He had a feeling he was in for a bad night, but he got back into bed anyway. Bad nights happened when the moon was full, but they also happened when it waned. Inmates jabbered to themselves or screamed until daylight. Or they just hooted and hollered until the guards screamed back. They didn’t need a reason. It passed the time.

  Bunching up his pillow and putting it over his head helped until the noise percolated through. Although it bothered him, he wasn’t concerned. As a teenager in the Big House, as a fish in a huge toxic tank, he’d memorized the sounds of men going crazy, of men dying, and of the penitentiary’s howling winds, often misinterpreted by newcomers as ghostly wails. Christ, men could be fools. True, one of the pipes made a weird noise, but it was more like an air raid siren. The only ghosts in the Pen were the ones people brought with them or summoned during their vigils for the dead.

  Dace had tried to live by three maxims ever since he’d arrived: do your own time, mind your own business, don’t turn a deaf ear to a friend in need.

  Strong loyalties to his peer group, he’d read upside down on an officer’s report more than once.

  A typical con, another wag had penned in a margin.

  Well, what did they know? What did anybody know about him? Reaching under the blanket, he found a surefire way to get some sleep. As long as nothing else happened, he’d sleep for a while.

  Chapter 11

  Smashing Bars, Rattling

  Windows, and then Silence

  About 600 of the 723 prisoners in Maitland Penitentiary went on a rampage last night, smashing windows, rattling bars, breaking furniture. Then there was silence. The revolt has been termed “spur of the moment”. It is not known what the inmates hope to gain, although there have been several interim demands for food, medication and security. Six guards who reported for duty at 9 am yesterday have not been heard from for several hours. Family members fear the worst.

  – Maitland Spectator, Sept. 3, 1971, p.1.

  Maitland Penitentiary, September 4, 1971:

  Tap, tap, Dace heard. Somebody was playing taps on the pipes in his tier.

  He had fallen asleep on the floor, his cheek was cold, his neck stiff. He edged closer to the hall light to check his watch. Jesus, it was 3:00 a.m., his least favourite hour.

  Metal on metal. Only guards could clang like that. Nobody else had the tools … or at least nobody else should have the tools.

  The tapping got louder. Somebody was coming down the hall.

  “Let’s get Dace. He’s a boxer, ain’t he?” a familiar voice said. The next thing Dace knew, a host of ghostlike men had materialized outside his cell. He jumped to his feet and grabbed the bars. He wasn’t going to let them open his door. If they got in …

  It made no sense. True, the goon squad preferred to make their visits at this hour, but Dace had done nothing to precipitate such an action. The fact that these guys were dressed in sheets and wearing baklavas should have tipped him off, but it didn’t. It was late and he was tired. It was only when the lead guy opened his mouth that he realized who his visitors were.

  “Are you with us, D’Arcy Devereux?” Sandy McAllister asked.

  No, Dace thought.

  Sandy held up a flaming torch. “Pull yourself together, man!” he said, prompting the rest of his friends to laugh. “It’s a bingo,” he added, seeing the look of confusion on Dace’s face.

  Well, Dace thought, all the more reason not to let you in. “A bingo?” he stalled. “A riot?”

  “Sure. We got some mother fuckin’ guards and we got some keys!” one of Sandy’s friends practically sang. “And if that don’t work, look at Charlie! He’s got a crowbar, man. He tore the fucking bars off our drums. We’re busting the rest of the solids out now. You’re one of us, right?”

  That’s right, Dace thought. I’m solid. Too solid to get mixed up with the likes of you. But then Charlie the Crowbar said something and Dace caught a whiff of male heat so strong that the part of him that throve on trouble and excitement was eager as a hard-on.

  But he couldn’t just take off with Sandy and his boys. He had way too much to lose. Maybe if he only had a couple of years in, but not now. And their eyes … He didn’t like their eye
s. They had probably dipped into the dispensary on their way here. He took a couple more steps back and almost landed in the toilet.

  Sandy giggled. “Ah, c’mon, man,” he pleaded.

  Bile rose in his throat, though he’d eaten supper and extra bread, too. How long did digestion take? Four, maybe five hours? They’d had Shepherd’s Pie yesterday at 4:00 p.m. It had been a little dry around the edges, but not bad, not lead at least. What about breakfast? Who was going to cook that? What had they done with all the pigs? There must have been at least thirty on duty.

  Fuck, he thought, slamming his fist into the concrete wall over the toilet. Why was he even thinking about food?

  Sandy waited a moment before walking away with all the dignity he could muster. His nose stuck up in the air and he made every step an accusation. The rest of his crew trailed their self-appointed leader down the catwalk, almost elegant in their white robes.

  Dace looked into his toilet and a scream reverberated from a lower tier.

  From a distance, he heard Charlie the Crowbar say, “Sounds like a problem. What d’you want to do?”

  He could almost hear Sandy brightening. A man on a mission. “Let’s shut the fucker up,” he suggested.

  Great, Dace thought, upchucking into his sweating toilet bowl. Now what?

  Chapter 12

  Golden Grove Unleaving

  Margaret, are you grieving

  Over Goldengrove unleaving?

  Leaves, like the things of man, you

  With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?

  Ah! as the heart grows older

  It will come to such sights colder

  By & by, nor spare a sigh

  Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;

  And yet you wíll weep & know why.

  Now no matter, child, the name:

  Sorrow’s springs are the same.

  Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed

  What héart héard of, ghóst guéssed:

  It is the blight man was born for,

  It is Margaret you mourn for

  *[ Hopkins, Gerald Manley, “Spring and Fall,” 1918]

  Maitland University, September 4, 1971:

  The monarchs weren’t fooled. They headed south in record numbers while summer lapsed into a hazy, golden September, catching the students in residence ill-prepared. Most had left their lighter clothes back in the bedrooms of their parents’ homes where they would claim free storage for years to come. Boxes sat in attic rooms on the farms, in basement dens in the suburbs, in the claustrophobic little worlds the students had yearned to escape ever since puberty had blindsided them, some as early as fifth grade. Parents who had thought they could never relinquish their children to adulthood had been desperate to let go in the end. Anything to avoid the stormy recriminations, the sullen end to their secret dream family lives.

  September marked the official start of all their New Years. Whole families forfeited the cherished Ontario summer and flung themselves fast forward through fall, into winter.

  The students perspired in their calf-length skirts and faded Levis. They strolled across the sprawling green campus lawns, pausing under shady canopies of maple trees and limestone arches. The more ambitious boys mapped the locations of their classes, casting their futures into the new school year. Most just hoped to get laid and remain free and unencumbered. And although people said fewer girls were virgins these days, they at least wanted to make one vital connection, to meet one special person, maybe even fall in love.

  Liza Devereux was no exception. She stopped under a maple tree on the swell of a hill, holding Stuart “Mel” Melville’s hand, and was temporarily magnetized by the look in his eyes. What if? she wondered.

  “Let’s catch our breath here,” he said. “Although I really could go for a drink.”

  For a moment she let him pull her closer, feeling a flood of relief as he wrapped around her. Mel was an uncomplicated personality. Nothing like Tony or Dace. Ah, Dace. My cousin with prison eyes, she thought, moving from the safety of her new friend’s arms.

  Mel looked at her, a five o’clock shadow glistening on his face. “Too hot?” he inquired, looking slightly appeased when she nodded.

  It was hot, but she didn’t care. Dublin had fed her mind, but she had been cold there for too long. She wore a grey tweed skirt and a teal blue, short-sleeved jumper today, made in Ireland. Pullover, she corrected herself, feeling sweat pool between her breasts. Everything she owned was back in her residence room. Don’t leave anything here, Gran had said, I don’t want any reminders. She didn’t have that many clothes, but she didn’t mind that.

  The sun shone through a lattice of golden maple leaves and Liza smiled. She had missed the sun while she’d lived in Dublin. At night when she’d slept, she’d dreamt of wide open fields surrounded by shady green trees and monarch butterflies on milkweed leaves. In her dreams it was never winter in Ontario.

  Now that she was back home she dreamed of Ireland and her endless fields of green; she sped on a motorbike with Tony up the Antrim coast, her arms stretched towards the sky; she traced a Celtic swirl with her eyes.

  Mel sprinted ahead of her, his legs picking up speed as he plunged to the bottom of the hill.

  Liza was worn out from living in the past. Better to run after Mel and start living in the present. This was her time, she reminded herself. If she couldn’t make a new life here at Maitland University, she never would.

  She caught up to him at the foot of the hill. “What are you thinking about?”

  She reached towards him and noticed that when he took her hand, every muscle in her stomach relaxed. His problems were so simple. All he wanted was to get A’s.

  “School stuff,” he said. “I have a really heavy course load.”

  He talked about his chemistry and math courses while her mind drifted to Dace, sweltering in the heat wave in his antediluvian little cell. Some said the penitentiary was air conditioned, but she doubted it. Her newly built student residence wasn’t even air-conditioned, for Christ’s sake. People also said the prisoners had colour television. Lies, all lies. The penitentiary was all about boredom, monotony and sensory deprivation, with no regard for the man it made. She knew that. Just last winter, Dace had sent her a sample of his daily routine and encouraged her to fill in the blanks:

  6:00 a.m. Bell rings 20 times. Wake up, be counted, go to showers twice a week.

  7:00 a.m. Breakfast [marching in single file]. Typical fare: dry cereal and white toast.

  7:30 a.m. Sick Call or Exercise Yard [to pace or use weights under a tin awning]

  8:30 a.m. Work [Mon to Fri.] or back to cells

  12:00 p.m. Bell rings 20 times. Lunch: bologna or cheese on white bread; canned fruit.

  12:30 p.m. Back to cells to be counted [and cop some prison drugs or gamble]

  1:00 p.m. Work [Mon to Fri.] or back to cells

  5:00 p.m. Bell rings 20 times. Mess Hall for supper: canned beans, stews, spaghetti.

  6:00 p.m. Back to cells to be counted [and write letters and read or score brew/drugs]

  6:30 p.m. Recreation: watch television or play games [checkers, chess and cribbage]

  8-10:00 p.m. Back to cells to be counted [and write letters and read or score brew/drugs]

  10:30 p.m. Bell rings 20 times. Lights out

  11:00 p.m. Absolute quiet

  Weekends were different, of course. No work. Was that good or bad? Dace had the option of visiting one of three chapels—all-purpose Protestant, Roman Catholic or Jewish—if he didn’t want to spend all day in his cell, with the remote chance of receiving a visitor on his approved list. Books and magazines were scarce and restricted unless illegally obtained, and inmate mail was censored as well. (The fact that he agreed to a skin search, including a rectal probe before and after every visitor, was something she would learn long after.)

  Slipping off her sandals to walk barefoot on the grass, she wondered what he did all day if he couldn’t even work now. In the past he had pla
yed on several in-house teams and worked in the prison library, but the Pen was almost shut down now, incubating some kind of botulism like badly canned food.

  Well, he could still read. He had been reading East of Eden the last time he’d written. The middle-aged prison librarian, an inveterate reader and counterfeiter, had recommended Steinbeck. And of course he wrote wonderful letters—to her alone, she hoped. He had done a correspondence course. And he lifted weights when they let him. Like the rest of them. Except he was better, much better. He had muscles. Too many, she amended, suddenly afraid. Why did he need so many? She looked at Mel’s arms, supple, lean and brown in one of the simple, solid-coloured T-shirts he favoured and a wave of tenderness washed over her. She wanted to look after him, too. He was just a boy, a tall, thin boy, and much better off that way. As she watched him, he brought his timetable up to the John Lennon glasses perched on his nose, pondering where to go next.

  “Let’s go to the student lounge,” she suggested. “It might be cooler.”

  “Where’s that?” he asked. “In the Student Hall?”

  She looked around with her unaided eyes. “Over there.” She pointed at a sign and Mel followed her gaze.

  Dace has 20/20 vision like I do, she thought. Yes, he was smart and strong with perfect vision, but he would never fit in here on campus. She knew that. He was much too old, in so many ways. Where was his place? And what about hers? The question was there because she belonged with him. But where? One look from him and his eyes would ignite the hot green grass as her fellow students fled. One look from her, well, nobody would notice.

  People here were baby-faced. Just look at Mel’s cute little upturned nose. Nothing had ever gone wrong in Mel’s life. Last night he had confided the details of his small town childhood to her. He was the local G.P.‘s son with a childhood so idyllic she figured he must be repressing. She’d fought the urge to say something sharp and spoil his evening. Now as she studied his unlined face with its full, youthful cheeks, she touched her own. Did she look as old and used up as she often felt?