Prisoners of the Williwaw

by Ed Griffin

  Whatever the cause, he had to have her and he had to keep her. She was incredibly beautiful.

  "Latisha!" he exclaimed and held out his arms. She had come home.

  She brushed by his open arms, pulled off her parka and sat in one of the regal chairs Gilmore had found in a storage room. He was in for it, no question. She was going to run up one side of him and down the other. If he sat there, if he took it all in, he would win her again.

  He started toward his office chair, then thought better of it. A desk between them would not help. He took another kingly chair and sat next to her. She smelled - wet, like everything else on Adak, but her being wet drove a vision into his mind, the two of them in the shower together in Detroit, playing and laughing until the water turned cold.

  He put his hand on hers. "I'm sorry about that party, not introducing you. I get talking to people and - "

  "That wasn't the problem."

  "I don't understand."

  She paused. "I thought we were going to be together here, Mister and Missus, you know."

  "We are."

  "No," she pulled her hand away from his, "it's Boss Gilmore and his woman."

  "I've been under a lot of pressure, getting started in business and all."

  She laughed. "You've been under a lot of pressure? Do you have any idea what it's like for women to come here?"

  He watched a drop of water slide down a strand of hair. He wanted to lean over and kiss it off her forehead.

  She turned to face him directly. "Why are you running against Frank Villa?"

  He looked at her carefully. Was she attracted to Villa? She always backed him. "I can do a better job as leader than him."

  "He put you on the council. This is the thanks you give him?"

  The drop of water was still there. He brushed it off her forehead with his finger, then took her hand. "Damn it, Latisha." He released her hand, stood up and thumped the the folders sitting on his desk. "These are convicts." Thumping the top folder reminded him about the firewood. How much should Red charge? He used to pick up a bundle of firewood, an armful, at the gas station in Detroit for a couple of bucks. Ten bucks for a bundle, how would that work? If it was too high, people would try to undersell him. If….

  He shook firewood out of his head. He had to convince her to stay. Maybe if she could see his way as the better way. He took her hand, pleading, holding on tight. "Take up a survey, Latisha, among the factory people. Are they there because Frank Villa asked them to be there? Or are they there because if they weren't, Boss Gilmore's muscle would break their legs?"

  She pulled her hand away. "You're hopeless, Gilmore. You can't stop thinking prison. You're a free man now."

  "What do you mean, thinking prison?"

  "You think like a guard. You think you're dealing with a group of moral sluggards who can't do anything right."

  "Have you ever sat down and talked to Fitznagel or Big Jim?"

  "Ain't no talkin' to you, Gilmore." She stood up, strong, powerful, black. God, he had to have her.

  "Please, fine lady, don't go."

  "Get the message, Gilmore. Respect, that's what these men want. That's what I want. Respect." She stepped forward, then back, like someone giving testimony in church. "Forget your parties and your booze. Treat these men with respect. They're proud, free men. Villa, he's doing that. Do you hear me, brother?"

  He would die without this woman. Could she see the hard-on in his pants?

  "And you treat me with respect." She raised her voice. "I'm not a boss' wife. I'm not a ho. My name's Latisha."

  "God, Latisha, I never treated you that way." He pulled on her hand. "I want you to stay."

  She turned and headed for the door. "Then change," she said and slammed the door.

  He supported himself on the edge of his desk, waiting for his hard-on to diminish. God, what a woman.

  Right below him on his desk lay the Firewood folder. He opened it. Yes, ten dollars a bundle would work, but first, before any announcement, he had to corner the market. His gatherers would scour every accessible beach for firewood, then…

  Chapter 20

  Frank selected his shopping cart - a box mounted on a skateboard. Tipsy, yes, but Billy the Cheese had taken the trouble to nail an outrigger board across the back of the skateboard. Over the past week Billy had added a selection of shopping carts.

  Surveying the rickety wagons, carts, wheelbarrows, skate-boxes and plastic milk carriers, Doc picked the latter. "Welcome to your neighborhood Safeway," he muttered.

  "Here's the plan, Doc," Frank said. "We map out our campaign while we're shopping. Okay?"

  "It's your fuckin' campaign. I've been tryin' for a week to get your mind on it. We've only got two weeks until the primary. Watch how Washington does it. They stop all government business for a year before an election."

  They started down the long rows of ceiling-to-floor shelves, most of them empty. Frank pulled the skate-box behind him, the loud rumble echoing through the empty shelves. Frank pictured Navy times in his mind, the shelves full, fork-lifts zipping up and down the aisles. One thing the Navy hadn't solved - every time the door opened a blast of cold, wet air swept through the warehouse.

  Down the second aisle Doc spotted a display of beans. "Look at this. String beans. Wax beans. Pork and beans. Fart beans. Man, we live high."

  Frank laughed.

  "Actually I didn't come here to shop. I just wanted to get out of that fuckin' clinic." Doc raised his voice to a whiny pitch. " 'Doc, I'm depressed. It rains too much here.' 'Doc, I can't work, I got a cold.' 'Doc, I think I got cancer.' Fuck. Cons are the biggest hypochondriacs in the world and their women ain't much better."

  "There's nothing else to do in the joint." Frank put three cans of baked beans in his box.

  "You're no fun, Frank. So what's the plan?"

  Doc chucked two cans of string beans into his carrier. Frank took a can of lentil beans from the shelf and held it in his hand. "You know, I've been thinking, Doc. This campaign should be about change, helping people deal with change. Prison didn't help the cons get ready. And the women, too, this is a big change for them."

  "No kidding. A big change. But Frank?"

  "What?"

  "What's that got to do with lentil beans?"

  Frank looked at the can in his hand and then tossed it into his box. "Nothing."

  He started pulling the skate-box behind him. It tipped, scraping the cement floor. Frank rearranged the cans in the center of the box.

  "Change is hard for people, Doc. We've gotta promise stability. It's like this stupid cart."

  They started moving again. "Good sermon, Frank, but a boring campaign. What we need is some sex. How about a poster showing a big, hairy inmate? When the next 300 fuck you up the ass, remember Boss Gilmore."

  "No."

  "Okay, just the hairy inmate. 300 more. Thanks, Boss Gilmore."

  "No, Doc. It's the same old stereotyping of inmates. That's precisely the opposite of what this place is about. I say we put out some position papers."

  "Which no one will read. We need to tie Gilmore to everything that goes wrong here. Like it's his fault there ain't no indoor crappers."

  "I'm really not into this campaigning business, Doc. I'm trying to do a good job. I've been working all week on getting a police vehicle ready for Joe. If the people like what I'm doing, they'll re-elect me."

  Doc raised his arms to the ceiling. "Thank you, Herbert Hoover." He lowered his arms and grabbed Frank by the shoulders. "I ain't shittin' you, Frank. We gotta work on this."

  Frank nodded. Doc was right. But he had promised Judy his Sundays and here it was almost three and he'd been gone all day.

  He freed himself from Doc's grasp. "How about this? We each finish our shopping then we have a cup of coffee in the back and draw up a plan."

  "Okay. Anyway, I gotta find the ginseng."

  "Ginseng?"

  "Yeah, I hear it's an aphrodisiac. What I really want is the antidote for ginseng. Ma
ybe it'll say on the package. That damn Hanna is driving me wacky. Sex. Sex. Sex. I'm gonna go look."

  Frank laughed and turned down the next aisle. Billy the Cheese had put up a sign that said Fresh Produce, but someone had crossed out the Produce and substituted Garbage. Fresh Garbage. The next aisle was full of surplus government notebook paper. He'd seen enough of that paper in the past week to last a lifetime. Reports to the Bureau of Prisons. Reports to the Small Business Administration on how many new businesses had been set up. The Environmental Protection Agency. A Congressional Subcommittee. And next week he had to start with the IRS. They had ten large cartons of forms waiting for him.

  Another aisle. Where had Doc gone? He wasn't in the cheese cooler aisle. Then macaroni and cheese dinners. Frank dropped two boxes of mac and cheese into his box. Someone turned into his aisle at the other end. Latisha.

  She came closer. She wore a soft red sweater under her parka. The red brought out the richness of her brown skin. Lips colored the same soft red. He held up the blue generic box of mac and cheese. "Dinner," he said and laughed and felt like a damn fool.

  Her hair was wet and he had an impossible urge to get a big soft towel and dry it. Why, he wondered, did she appear now to be a vision, when he'd seen her all week at the factory?

  The blue package in his hand weighed a ton.

  She pointed at the package and smiled. "Mac and cheese. Try mixing it with a little ground beef. Fry the beef up first with some onions."

  Years of studying philosophy and history and literature in prison and now he had absolutely nothing to say.

  "Can I buy you a cup of coffee?" He pointed with the generic blue box toward the back of the store where Billy the Cheese had put a table and two chairs and his coffee urn.

  Can I buy you a cup of coffee. Hardly a creative line, he thought. What was the matter with him? She would say no. He was not smooth. Besides it was Doc he was supposed to have the coffee with to work on campaign strategy.

  "Okay," she said easily, like it was a natural thing for two friends. "Maggie and I are planning to invade your office this week and put all your paperwork into a regular system."

  "That would be great. God knows I need help."

  He pointed toward the back of the store, then pulled on his cart which made a thunderous rumble. She turned her head toward him and spoke over the rumble. "Nice cart."

  On the outside he gave her an appreciative smile, but inside joy, laughter, happiness filled him like he hadn't experienced in years. To laugh with a woman, that was the essence of human life.

  Rumble. Rumble. They walked on. The fragrance of herbs. The slight sway of her walk. He rounded the corner at the end of the aisle. The cart tipped and scraped the cement, the cans slid to the end. He stopped and rearranged the cans. When he stood up he felt himself blushing or was it just bending over that caused the blood to rush to his head?

  God, what a mess he was. And he had no saint, no role model to call on. When he didn't know what to do about the island, he called on Rudy. Who could he call on to help him with women?

  At the table he got two Styrofoam cups, put $2 in the can, and sat down. What am I going to talk about, he wondered. At work most conversations he'd had with her involved the production line or paper work.

  Someone opened the front door and a draft of cold, wet air blew through the store. He couldn't see the door from where he sat. What if it was Gilmore? Nothing would provoke more antagonism in Gilmore than to see Frank having coffee with his wife.

  She sipped her coffee. He had to start a conversation. "How…how are you surviving this weather?" Inside he reprimanded himself: Stupid question number one.

  She put her cup on the table and leaned toward him, like he had raised an interesting question. "This is going to sound crazy. I don't mind it. I'd love to go for a long walk. See Finger Bay or Clam Lagoon or those little trees the Navy planted."

  "You don't mind the rain and the wind?"

  She laughed. "No, I really don't. I love the wind's power. I watched a truck get turned over by the wind a few weeks ago outside Gil's place."

  "Was it a williwaw?"

  She shook her head. "I don't know. But it was something. The wind rules."

  Doc came up to the table. Please Doc, Frank said in his mind, no comments about Gilmore now. "Hey, Frank, I'll see you. The old hag is waiting for the cheese to bind her up and the beans to let it all go. Hi, Latisha. We'll work on the campaign this week, Frank."

  "Yeah, okay. Now you take it easy, Doc. Take some time for yourself."

  "Sure," Doc said as he walked away. "Think I'll lie on the beach for an hour or two."

  She was silent for a moment, then she said, "I'm - I'm really sorry about this campaign, Frank. I'm not sure what Gil is trying to do."

  "He's playing the democracy game. That's okay."

  Frank felt a blast of air. The door had just opened. Was that Doc leaving…or … What if it was Gilmore?

  "Where did you come from, Latisha?" Frank asked. Stupid question number two. Despite her guarded look, her eyes were lively.

  "Detroit, originally, but I've been living in New York the last couple of years. I worked for Sears."

  "I've never been there, New York, I mean."

  "I didn't like it. This place is so wild, so free. No sun-deprived canyon streets."

  Frank laughed. "No sun."

  There was another pause. She toyed with a black curl of hair. He looked down at his coffee and then back up at her. How could he keep her talking - talking forever?

  She sipped her coffee. "How did you come up with this idea, Frank?"

  He shrugged, self-consciously. "I don't know. I started thinking about how society likes to hide crime in out-of-the-way prisons." He gestured with his hands. "Like we used to do with lepers. I figured you have to solve crime where it happens, right in the middle of society. And that's where you cure people, too, right in the middle of their families."

  Damn it, he'd done it again. Up on the soapbox. "Sorry."

  "For what?"

  "For lecturing away. I . . . "

  "Not a problem." She smiled and touched his hand. Electricity shot through him. My God, I'm a teenager, he thought.

  A pause. There was something different about her. Was she taller than he had noticed? No, her eyes were about the same level as his. Something about the lines on her face. Happier? Less depressed? Stronger? Why hadn't he been paying attention to her at the factory? It was always work, solve problems, work, solve problems.

  "Tell me more, Frank. Is this island working? Is it what you expected?"

  He scratched his head with the hand she had touched. He could still feel the spot on the back of his hand. He swallowed. "Is it working? I don't know. All their lives, before jail and during jail, these guys have been dumped on. I'm trying to respect them, to treat them as free men - and women. But to be honest, Latisha, sometimes Doc makes a lot of sense. He tells me to get tough. Especially with your - your husband."

  She circled her hand around the top of her Styrofoam cup. "I know. I'm sorry." She lowered her head. "I wish he were different."

  "It's not your fault. Actually your husband is my big test case. The whole way he operates is predicated on a prison system. The guards against the men. That's all gone here. Gilmore's an intelligent guy. He's going to get the idea soon."

  Another blast of air through the warehouse. This was nerve-racking.

  Latisha shook her head. "I thought he'd figure out a lot of things." Tears came to her eyes. She paused, looked directly at him. "Frank, I want to ask you something."

  His heart stirred. Years, years ago, he was on the boat with Angela. He lay on his stomach reading War and Peace. She slid in next to him and said the same thing, "Frank, I want to ask you something. Would you sail around the world with me?"

  What was Latisha going to ask?

  He pushed his glasses on tight. "Yes?"

  "How do I go about returning to the mainland?"

  The doctor had jus
t said, "It's terminal;" the judge had just said, "Life." She was leaving. Why had he let his feelings go? Hadn't he learned in prison? His official voice answered her question. "When the new convicts come, any civilian wishing to return home may do so."

  He looked down at his boots. Three weeks he'd been here and still his right boot leaked. He hated wet feet. This was a terrible place.

  He pushed his glasses on tight. She touched his hand. "You can do it, Frank. You can win. You won the hearts of most of these people once, you can do it again. One of the guys at the factory told me how you kept everyone informed all the time. He said you were a big contrast to prison officials who shove cons into a meat wagon and transport them hundreds of miles to a new prison without saying a word."

  "Ahh . . . it's . . . ." He couldn't go on. All the warmth and fire that had spread through him a minute ago went into reverse and shrunk back to a cold lump in his heart.

  "I'm sorry. It's just not working out with Gilmore."

  "It's . . . You've been a great help here. I'll miss you. I just have to let the government know. When they ship in the next group of convicts, anyone who wants to leave can do so on the return flights."

  "Next March?"

  "Yes. No. Your husband's motion means another group will be coming shortly - November. There's no chance you'd reconsider?"

  She circled her coffee cup some more. Frank saw the definiteness in her motion. She was not thinking twice; she was searching for a different way to explain her decision.

  He wanted to get down on his knees and beg her to stay. Then it hit him. She was another man's wife. What the hell was he doing? What about his own wife?

  You're evil, Frank. The internal judge looked down on him. But then another voice. No, like everybody else, you're confused. You've got to do what prison told you never to do: you've got to take control.

  "I just can't get through to him," she said. "Like this week I talked to Amy O'Donnell. She's got five kids under ten. Her husband, Skeeter, spends all his time at Gil's place. I tried to talk to Gil about him. No luck. 'Skeeter's family life is Skeeter's family life,' he said."