Chancers

by Susan Stellin

  “Sorry I haven’t called,” Graham said, after I hadn’t heard from him in a couple days. “I was on a speaking ban.”

  “What happened?”

  “I got pulled up for phone manipulation. If you dial and the person doesn’t pick up that’s supposed to count as your call, but someone saw me redial so I wasn’t allowed to talk for forty-eight hours. I had to wear a sign around my neck that shows a guy’s face with a zipper across his mouth.”

  Picturing that punishment, I had to resist the urge to laugh—it clearly wasn’t funny to Graham. “I thought this was supposed to be a non-shame-based program?”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “Isn’t swearing against the rules?”

  “Yeah, but no one’s around who can hear me. That’s the one thing I hate about this program—all the snitching. If you don’t address people for things they’re doing wrong you get pulled up for nonparticipation. We’ve got quotas—like cops!”

  I didn’t understand what many of the rules had to do with recovery, either; leaving a cup on the table or talking too loudly seemed like pretty minor offenses. But I reminded Graham that he had to “pick up his awareness,” quoting the line they used all the time in the program. “If you get kicked out, it’s going to look really bad to the judge.”

  “Trust me, I’m not gonna get kicked out. I’ve only gotten pulled up three other times—once for not wearing socks outside my living area, once for not signing out on the phone sheet, and once for leaving my locker open.”

  Still, it was something I worried about constantly. Not because Graham wasn’t committed to his recovery—I had no doubts about that—but he’d always been a bit scatterbrained, in that distracted artist or ADD sort of way. Even without drugs clouding his mind, I wasn’t sure that had changed.

  For a while, I’d been wondering what Graham would be like back in the real world. It was one thing to stick with the program when he was locked up in prison—with fifty-five other guys constantly hawking him. But once he was free, how would he handle the day-to-day stress of managing his life?

  That question became much more personal a few days later, when I was on the phone with Armen and he suggested—or really, decided—that Graham should stay with me after he got released.

  “It’s what the judge would want,” Armen told me. “Graham needs to show he’s got a stable place to live, and it sounds like you’re his best option.”

  “What about what I want?” I protested, half-heartedly.

  “C’mon, do you really want him to end up back in the hood?”

  I had already figured Graham might end up on my doorstep, at least for a little while, so I told Armen I’d consider it. But I wasn’t a total pushover, so in my next letter to Graham I let him know how I felt about that idea.

  Everyone at the law firm is assuming you’ll end up staying with me, and if the judge needs to know that you won’t be getting dumped out on the street, I’m not going to stand up and yell, “Objection, your honor! He doesn’t organize his silverware and I can’t live with that!” But that’s something we need to talk about. I don’t know what you imagine happening, but I don’t want to just stumble into this because the holidays go by in a blur and then suddenly you get an earlier court date.

  Like I’ve told you, I don’t know what I want to happen—and I have no idea what’s going on inside your head. Seriously, what do you picture when you imagine walking out of York County Prison? The only things you’ve mentioned are that you want to breathe fresh air and be able to walk to a deli and buy a Kit-Kat.

  Graham’s letters to me had tapered off as he got caught up in the program, doing writing assignments about addiction instead, so I really didn’t have a clue how he pictured his life after prison. Since he didn’t have much control over his future, I think we were both reluctant to make any real plans.

  But if he did win his case, I actually didn’t mind taking him in. In some sense, I already felt like Graham and I lived together. His mail came to my apartment, his laptop was on my coffee table, I’d even washed the clothes I picked up at Joe’s place. I’d been through his email, his credit card bills, his medical records, and his bank statements; I’d read about every arrest on his rap sheet. I knew more about Graham than many couples know about each other after years of marriage—and it didn’t hurt that he was basically in cohabitation boot camp, admonished if he didn’t make his bed with military precision or left a blob of toothpaste in the sink. Frankly, everything Graham told me about what he was learning in the program tipped the scale in favor of giving him a chance.

  When we talked about it, he assured me that he’d be a model “roommate”—neither of us really sure how to refer to his status.

  “I’m happy to cook, clean, do laundry, pay rent, whatever you want. I don’t know how long it’s gonna take until I can get my own place—I’m sure my credit is fucked—but feel free to tell me if I’m overstaying my welcome.”

  “There’s just one—or really, two conditions,” I warned him. “If I start wondering if you’re using, or if you lie to me about anything, I’m kicking you out. I’m serious—I’m going to have a zero-tolerance policy about that.”

  “I promise you, that’s not gonna happen. After everything I’ve been through, I can’t imagine what would make me want to go back to that life.”

  I actually didn’t think it was likely, but if Graham did relapse, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t miss the signs. Now that I knew what he was like off drugs, it would be a lot harder for him to hide anything from me—especially living together.

  After reminding him that my tiny apartment didn’t have much more privacy than a prison dorm, I threatened to go on a mail strike if he didn’t write me soon, which did prompt him to send another letter.

  I’m going to start off by telling you how much I appreciate all you’ve done for me. I know that when you do something you do so 100% and I know this is for you as much as for me! Correct me if I’m wrong. I can’t imagine what your friends who met me must feel about you doing all this. I’m sure some think your mad—but maybe not—I don’t really know them too well.

  It’s really weird but as painful as it is in jail you sort of manage to make a little comfort zone for yourself. A few good people, structure to your days and setting yourself little goals—like making it through the day with only 2 cups of coffee when you really want six + seeing if you can get through the week without chocolate, candy, or cookies!! It all helps to make the hours, days + weeks come around just that wee bit quicker. But when a day drags in jail it’s like torture. It pains me to see other people struggling, that sad, empty look on their faces, don’t do anything, get depressed, sleep all day, don’t mix—it’s hard in jail, away from everything & everyone you love. I can’t believe I’ve been locked up for almost 7 months now—that’s crazy—I would never have thought I’d be able to deal with it—you don’t have a choice though except to make the most of it—or give in to it!

  But I’ll say one thing—I’ve met a lot of assholes in jail, but I’ve met some nice people + especially here in the program ’coz almost everyone is here by choice. And there’s a big dropout/kicked out rate so the people who make it through the 1st month are almost all looking for change, trying to better themselves. I don’t know what the success rate is but this program is no joke—it makes rehab in CA look like a picnic party—really. I know I’ve been real down about it a few times but that’s sort of the way the program works—it certainly weeds out the people who are not prepared to give in to the fact that they are powerless and can’t go on. I was getting deeper into a hole I may not have been able to climb out of and in a way my arrest may have saved my life! Who knows but here I am in York PA a much better person—I feel—than I have been in many years + that’s a great feeling. This is like the best rehab I could ever have gotten.

  Anyway Susan it’s sort of strange how this whole thing has thrown us together again in this weird way—me in jail you on the outside helping me. I’ve had
many mixed emotions because of it. I found myself feeling love for you (real love—from the bottom of my heart) feeling pain for how I fucked up what we had ’coz I know if I hadn’t been using things would have been different. I’m scared if/when I get out what it’ll be like to see you, look you in the eye, hug you and hold you + thank you for helping save my life (to some extent!) I thank you for giving me somewhere to stay also. That must have been a hard decision + maybe a little awkward. I know you like your own space + I feel a bit weird about it but I’m sure you’ll kick me out soon as I start leaving things lying around and bringing in things on trash night!

  I’ve enclosed a list of bands, songs, singers for you to make a CD to play when you come down for my hearing—and if all goes well I can listen to it with you on the way back to NYC.

  Love

  Graham X

  That’s the condensed version of his letter—it was about twice as long, going off on tangents in Graham’s rambling, stream-of-consciousness way. I sometimes felt like we were having this bizarre, old-fashioned courtship by mail. Without any physical contact, it was a slow buildup, all of that pent-up emotion pouring out onto the page.

  If I was still holding back, it wasn’t for any of the reasons I was reluctant years earlier: I didn’t care about his divorces, his checkered past, or his rap sheet. And the more time he spent in the program, the less I worried about him staying clean. I even felt like I could trust him to be honest with me. After all that he’d exposed and confessed and revealed, I couldn’t imagine him lying again.

  In fact, the main reason I didn’t want to get my heart set on a future with Graham had nothing to do with him or me. It was that no matter how much Armen told us Graham had a good chance of winning, the government could still decide to send him away.

  —

  AS THANKSGIVING ROLLED around, I was mostly grateful that my work on Graham’s case was almost finished. I had gathered all the documents the firm needed, written my own letter to the judge, and made plans to pick up Graham’s tax returns from the accountant. Armen was driving down to York for another client’s hearing in early December, so he was going to meet with Graham and get him to sign them.

  After putting my life on the back burner for three months, I finally felt like I could rejoin the free world. I spent Thanksgiving with a friend’s family, made plans to go to Michigan for Christmas, and took my friend Alex out for a birthday dinner. She had been propping me up through all of my freak-outs and doubts, so we toasted the light peeking in at the end of the tunnel.

  But just as I was feeling a sense of accomplishment about pulling everything together, Graham was slipping into a holiday funk. One night he called complaining about all the Christmas ads on TV making everyone miss their kids even more.

  “It just takes one of your pals getting down,” he said. “Then it spreads—like a cold.”

  I looked at the pine boughs and lights I’d strung across the mantel, the log burning in the fireplace, and the sugar cookies I’d just made, feeling a twinge of deck-the-halls guilt. But not enough to stop me from reminding Graham about a letter he’d sent me, describing how he’d spent last Thanksgiving and Christmas—lonely, depressed, dope sick, and broke.

  “It’s not just the holidays,” he said, winding up to the real reason he was moping: “I got a letter from my sister that was pretty harsh.”

  “Uh oh…What did she say?”

  “It was mostly about the past—how much I hurt my parents, and how painful it was for her and my brother, and why she finally had to cut me off.”

  I was a little surprised by that, since Graham’s sister had sent me several nice emails and she’d written a letter to the judge supporting Graham’s plea to stay.

  “Well, I guess you’ve got to give everyone a chance to say their piece,” I told him. “I’ve certainly done that, so I’m sure there were some things she needed to get off her chest. Isn’t that what you’ve been talking about in the program—that it’s better to address it, so you can move on?”

  “I know….It’s just a lot of shit coming at me at once.”

  Later, Graham would show me his sister’s letter and it was pretty tough—but it was also really encouraging and loving, talking about what a great big brother Graham had been and how much she missed having him in her life. Reading it, I was actually a little jealous of the relationship she described—going to gigs and exhibitions, sharing flats in London, and the “loads of laughs” they had growing up.

  But at the time, my message to Graham was basically: Buck up, there’s no point wallowing in self-pity.

  “See, it’s already like a marriage,” I wrote him. “No sex, I’m doing your errands, and I’m bitching about your mood swings.”

  I wasn’t going to let Graham’s gloom spoil my Christmas, but I did try to cheer him up by scouring the racks for holiday cards that weren’t too inappropriate to send an inmate—like one showing a snowman finding two lumps of coal in his stocking, holding them up, and shouting, “I can see!”

  In a way, that card pretty much summed up what Graham was getting for Christmas: enlightenment, courtesy of a rehab program in prison. What I got was a new appreciation for the freedom to drink champagne at parties where everyone complained about “just getting through” the holidays. For me, it was hard to take even little things for granted after seeing what it was like to have so much taken away.

  —

  AFTER ARMEN GOT back from Pennsylvania, I went by his office to pick up the tax returns Graham had signed—it was the first time we’d ever met. I had pictured sort of a smooth operator, but here was this guy-next-door in glasses who immediately showed me photos of his wife and kids.

  “Do you think Graham would do a family portrait once he gets out?” he asked. “Of course I’d pay him, but maybe he’d give me a discount.”

  “I’m sure he would, but you know that’s how I ended up getting involved with him—I asked him to take my picture, and look where that led.”

  Armen laughed, sizing me up from the other side of his desk. “You two make a good couple,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, expecting some observation about our shared sense of humor or opposites attracting.

  “You both have the same intense look in your eyes.”

  By then I was used to Armen’s matchmaking efforts, asking if I thought Graham and I would get married or referring to me as Graham’s “fiancée.” At first I assumed that was part of his legal strategy, but over time I realized he was sincere.

  “Not to put too much pressure on you,” I said. “But our future is really in your hands.”

  Armen told me he’d won nine out of eleven deportation cases he had argued in York; one of the losses happened the day he saw Graham. As he described how hard it was to be in the courtroom with this client and his devastated family, the head of the firm popped in—assuring me that the rehab program Graham was doing would really help his case.

  “Is there any chance we could get an earlier court date?” I asked.

  “I doubt it,” Armen said. “The judges’ dockets are really backed up—and Graham needs to finish the program before we’d even consider requesting an earlier hearing.”

  I thanked them and took Graham’s tax returns to the IRS office across the street. I knew he was depressed about how much money he owed—to the government that was trying to deport him. It was tough even for me to write those checks, given how much it cost taxpayers to keep him locked up: about $150 a day. That would add up to more than $20,000 for Graham’s whole time in detention—and for all the immigrants in ICE custody, about $2 billion a year.

  —

  A WEEK LATER, I flew to Michigan to see my family for Christmas. I always looked forward to spending the holidays at my parents’ house, which was decorated as if Martha Stewart had just stopped by: three Christmas trees hung with ornaments collected over almost fifty years of marriage, electric candles in the windows, and white lights on the bushes outside.

  My
sister flew in from Los Angeles with her husband and one-year-old son, my brother and his wife drove over with their two kids, and I arrived from New York—once again, traveling alone. I was always self-conscious about not quite fitting into the family tableau, so it was even more alienating to be keeping a secret about my ex-boyfriend in prison. My parents knew about what I’d been doing for Graham, but my brother and sister didn’t, so I took the phone into my bedroom and shut the door every time he called.

  On Christmas Day, he phoned just as we were about to sit down for dinner.

  “It’s Graham—I have to take this,” I whispered to my mom—who was tolerant about many things, but not having a holiday meal delayed. “He’s alone, in prison, on Christmas. Can’t you stall for five minutes?” Then I dashed upstairs, accepting the call as I passed all the nutcrackers lining the steps.

  “Merry Christmas! We’re just about to eat, so I can only talk for a few minutes.”

  “That’s alright,” Graham said. “If you have to go I can call you tomorrow.”

  “No, I can talk—just not for long. I know it’s not much of a holiday for you, but do they do anything special, like hang decorations or cook a turkey for dinner?”

  “Are you joking? It’s just like any other day, except some people from the Salvation Army came and sang a song and gave us all a gift—a pair of socks, a little calendar, and a pencil.”

  “That sounds like something out of a nineteenth-century novel, where all the poor kids get an orange for Christmas.”

  “Trust me, I would’ve rather had an orange—a calendar is sort of the last thing you want when you’re locked up. And I find it really bizarre that you can have a pencil in here, sharpened to an extremely fine point, but they won’t give you a fork. It’s really boring to eat your dinner with a plastic spoon every night.”