by Ava McCarthy
‘I’m fine.’
The older woman tilted her head, the light catching the broad, olive cheeks that hinted at Cherokee ancestry. Deep lines criss-crossed her skin, like grids for tic-tac-toe. She was fifty-two years old, and had been in prison since she was twenty. She would never leave.
She held Jodie’s gaze. ‘If it’s Magda you’re worried about, she’s in Seg. They frisked her and found the blade.’
‘I heard.’
Seg was the Administrative Segregation Unit, where inmates were isolated in lockdown for disciplinary offences. Most women came out of there a lot meaner than when they went in.
Momma Ruth’s dark eyes still probed hers, and not for the first time Jodie imagined how she might paint her. For the skin, a blend of earthy tones: yellow ochre, cadmium red. For the black hair, layers of ultramarine blue, flecked with titanium white. The challenge would be the eyes; how to capture that taciturn acceptance.
She recalled Momma Ruth’s quiet words of advice the day she got here.
‘Don’t fight it,’ she’d said. ‘I fought it every day for fifteen years, and that just made it worse. Make your peace with it.’ Then she’d held up a finger. ‘But you got to know how to survive. You got to be careful how you walk, how you hold yourself. Always look ahead. Don’t stare at anyone, but don’t look down at your feet. And remember, for some of these women, the more violent it is, the more fun they’re having. You’re dealing with women who don’t care.’
Jodie blinked. She fought the urge to check the clock, and tried to focus on Momma Ruth’s easel.
‘Let’s see what you’ve got here.’
‘It’s not very pretty.’
‘Art’s not about pretty, you know that.’
As usual, Momma Ruth had ignored the plastic mannequin the others were drawing and had painted something abstract of her own. Jodie took in the series of dark, concentric whorls, all rippling outwards across the canvas from a pale blue core.
She glanced at Momma Ruth, then back at the easel, her eyes drawn to the warm blue kernel. ‘You’re not happy with it?’
‘Loops went all sludgy. The browns all look like muck.’
‘What about the blue bit?’
‘Yeah, I like the blue bit.’ Momma Ruth’s eyes flicked to Jodie’s face. ‘Sort of tugs at you, doesn’t it?’
Jodie nodded, studying the pattern of elliptical swirls. ‘It’s important, the blue bit?’
Momma Ruth pushed some paint around her palette with a brush, stirring up the resinous smell of linseed oil. ‘It’s supposed to be … I don’t know. Like, who we are before we make all these bad choices.’
‘You mean innocence?’
‘Sort of. More like a clean slate, you know? Before you make that first bad choice and start up all of these consequences.’ Momma Ruth gestured with the brush at the murky ripples. ‘But the browns aren’t right.’
‘You just mixed too many colours.’ Jodie nodded at the muddy-looking palette. ‘You could fix it when it’s dry.’
‘Make the best of a bad mistake? Maybe.’ Momma Ruth shrugged. ‘Not all bad mistakes can be undone, though, can they?’
Jodie let her gaze fall away, the question floating between them. No one knew for sure what Momma Ruth had done. If ever anyone asked, she’d say it didn’t matter; she’d done a terrible thing and now she was paying for it, and that was as it should be.
She’d tried to teach Jodie the same acceptance, but Jodie already knew she could endure her prison sentence. It was the loss of Abby she couldn’t live with.
She flashed another glance at the clock. Only five more minutes to go.
Nate drew up beside them, on her way to the sink with a jar of brushes. Her freshly buzzed hair made her look like an army recruit.
‘Jesus, what the fuck is that?’
Momma Ruth flapped at her to go away. ‘You wouldn’t get it. And I don’t need any of your smart-ass comments.’
‘Hey, come on, try me.’
Momma Ruth rolled her eyes. ‘Okay, it’s us. Our choices and mistakes.’
‘It’s a fucking mistake alright. Looks like a giant fingerprint.’
To Jodie’s surprise, Momma Ruth looked pleased.
‘You can see that?’ She glanced at Jodie. ‘It’s what I was aiming for. You know, like our mistakes are hard-wired into our DNA? Like we don’t really have any choices.’
Nate made a face. ‘Fuck, that’s depressing. You believe that crap?’
‘I believe I would have ended up here no matter what, yes. Because of who I am. Wasn’t in my blood to make different choices.’
‘Well, I got choices. And I choose to call that bullshit.’ Nate banged her jar on a nearby desk. ‘And I choose to dump these brushes with you, because I ain’t fucking cleaning them.’
She stomped back across the room, and when she’d gone Jodie said, ‘Is that really what you believe?’
Momma Ruth got to her feet, her eyes on a level with Jodie’s. ‘Think about it. About what you did. If you had the chance to do it over again, would you really do anything different?’
Jodie stared at her, and for an instant, she was back in Ethan’s car: his gaze challenging hers in the rear-view mirror, watchful, twisted.
‘I picked a pretty spot … she didn’t wake up once.’
The air rushed out of Jodie’s lungs. She clenched her fists, her whole body.
She’d kill him again in a heartbeat.
Mrs Tate clapped her hands. ‘Time’s up, ladies, start clearing away.’
Jodie’s pulse picked up. The whole room seemed to move at once. Desks and chairs chirruped against the floor, easels clattered. Jodie fumbled with jars and tubes, working hard to stay calm, while the other women queued up at the sink. They straggled out to the corridor in dribs and drabs, until finally only Jodie and Mrs Tate were left.
Together they tidied away the last of the mess, clearing the counters and stacking the desks and chairs in a corner. Mrs Tate looked tired. She thanked Jodie briefly, then led the way out of the room, Jodie following her as far as the door. There she hung back, watching as Mrs Tate took a left down the corridor.
Jodie scooted a look around. Then she quick-stepped back into the art room, reached up into a cupboard and retrieved the plastic mannequin.
Her fingers were shaking. She twisted the head to detach it at the neck, at the same time moving closer to the tray of tweezers Mrs Tate kept for jewellery-making. She’d need them to prise out the cotton wad of pills from inside the hollow doll.
‘Garrett!’
Jodie froze. Her gaze snapped to the door. To the scowling, heavyset officer standing on the threshold.
Groucho.
The mannequin seemed to scorch her hands.
But Groucho’s eyes weren’t on the plastic doll. He jerked his chin in the direction of the corridor.
‘Let’s go. You got a visitor.’
5
‘If it’s my lawyer, I don’t want to see him.’
Jodie trudged down the corridor after Groucho. From behind, he looked bulky with protective gear, his heavy leather duty belt creaking with every step. He spoke over his shoulder.
‘This guy’s no lawyer. He’s a real live human being.’
Jodie frowned. ‘But I didn’t sign any visitation form. I didn’t ask to see anyone.’
‘Got the paperwork upstairs, your signature’s on it.’
‘That can’t be right.’
‘You saying it’s a fake?’
Jodie’s step faltered. Visitors had to be approved by inmates in advance, with a signed form submitted to the Department of Corrections. She hadn’t signed one, but the niggling in her gut told her she knew who had.
She trotted to keep up. ‘This visitor, is it a guy called Novak?’
‘You should know, you put his name down on the form.’
‘Is it him?’
Groucho relented. ‘Yeah, it’s him.’
Shit. Matt Novak. The reporter who’d written to her, asking f
or an interview; the guy Dixie kept urging her to see. Dixie, who was locked up for falsifying cheques and counterfeiting identification documents; who could copy a signature after seeing it only once, in Jodie’s case probably from the painting Mrs Tate had brought in to show the class.
Groucho swung round to face her, his belt clinking with keys and cuffs. ‘Do we have a problem here? You saying the paperwork’s not legit?’
Jodie took in the grumpy lines of his face, the pouches under his eyes. The guy had a tough job. The first to unlock the inmates in the mornings, he usually took the brunt of everyone’s resentment. Jodie let him do his job, never gave him any lip. In exchange, he wasn’t above bending the rules, often letting her stay longer in the art room than she should. But rumour had it he was close to retirement now, and Jodie guessed he wasn’t about to risk his pension by breaching major rules.
She dropped her gaze, then made herself shrug, sidestepping the fuss that would only get Dixie into trouble.
‘The paperwork’s fine. I guess I just forgot.’
He gave her a long, penetrating look. Then, with a quick glance around, he stepped up closer and pointed a finger at her face.
‘You need to watch out for Magda. She’s a psycho, and she won’t be in Seg for long.’
Jodie opened her mouth to reply, but he’d already turned on his heel and was continuing on towards the visiting room. She hurried after him. The blare of loud voices echoed through the closed door, like the racket of a large, unruly class left unattended. She hung back, her stomach knotted, while Groucho stepped in to deal with the Officer in Charge.
She’d never had any visitors. No family to worry about how she was doing, no friends who hadn’t already moved on. All except for Nancy, who’d written two or three times, asking if she could come. But Jodie wouldn’t see her. They’d be strangers now, separated by Jodie’s pain and by the magnitude of what she’d done. A visit like that would take down both of them.
Groucho gestured her forward, and Jodie hesitated, suddenly tuning in to the sound of children in the room. She swallowed hard.
She’d get in and get out. No chit-chat with Novak, just a long enough visit to allay suspicion over Dixie’s handiwork. If she was quick, she might even get back to the art room before it closed and retrieve the mannequin she’d replaced inside the cupboard.
Jodie lifted her chin and stepped forward through the door. The din of voices filled the air. She took in the rows of tables and chairs, all occupied by inmates and their families. Most of the women in prison here were mothers.
She averted her eyes from the toddlers in the play area, and let her gaze travel the room. The windows in here were larger than most. Sunlight slanted through the grilles, casting trellises onto the floor. Jodie’s eyes followed the grid lines to the far corner of the room, where a dishevelled-looking man sat alone, drumming his fingers on the table.
Her arrival snagged his attention. He clambered to his feet, as she started off across the room. Up close, he looked younger than she’d thought: probably about her own age, mid-thirties at most, though his raggedy, days-old stubble made it hard to tell. She stood in front of him, assessing his unkempt, curly hair, the wrinkled shirt, the crumpled jacket slung across the back of his chair. He looked like he belonged in prison more than she did.
‘I’m Jodie Garrett.’
‘Yeah, I know. Matt Novak.’
He made as if to shake her hand, then glanced at the Officer in Charge and seemed to think better of it. He gestured instead at the chair opposite his, and waited for her to sit down before resuming his own seat.
‘Thanks for agreeing to see me.’
‘Actually, I didn’t.’ She went on, forestalling objections. ‘My cellmate forged the paperwork on my behalf, she thought the visit would do me good. I disagree.’
His expression shifted into neutral while he processed the information. He regarded her with clear, slate-grey eyes.
‘And yet you’re still here.’
‘I’m here for five minutes. We can talk about the weather or your favourite baseball team, but I’m not interested in discussing my past with you, Mr Novak.’
‘I think you’ll want to hear what I’ve got to say.’
He gave her a long, assessing look, and eventually, he added,
‘I was in court for your trial. You haven’t changed much. Thinner maybe.’
‘You were doing a story about me back then, too?’
‘No offence, but my story’s not about you.’
‘I see. Who, then?’
‘Your husband.’
‘Ah, I get it.’ Jodie closed her eyes briefly. ‘Successful lawyer, popular family man, tragically slain by evil wife.’
She felt her lips compress. The media had run that angle for months after the trial and she wasn’t about to submit to it again, not even for Dixie. She shifted in her seat, made a move to get up. Novak put out a hand.
‘Would it surprise you to know he was involved in fraud?’
Jodie cut him a sharp look. She thought of Ethan’s secretive nature; of the quick-thinking lies he’d routinely told, always doctoring reality to suit his own needs. Swapping one lie for another when he had to, adapting without notice to changes in circumstance.
She scraped back her chair. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me in the least.’
‘Don’t you want to hear about it?’
‘Not really.’
Novak’s flinty-grey eyes regarded her with speculation. ‘You don’t seem the type to fall for such a take-charge kinda guy.’
Jodie paused, and flung him a wry look. ‘Most people found him charming.’
‘I’ve been digging for three years, and his charm escapes me. Thought you’d be too smart for all that baloney.’
Jodie gave a rueful shrug, recalling how Ethan had been when they’d first met: clever, affectionate, impossible to dislike. He’d always worked so hard, always looked so tired from trying to do his best by his clients. But six months into the marriage, he’d already been devising small tyrannies: objecting to the time she spent with Nancy; belittling her painting; challenging her need to escape the suffocating house. Over the years, he’d flung many allegations at her, accusing her of affairs, often claiming that Abby wasn’t his daughter. Jodie had railed at him.
‘You want me to arrange a paternity test, Ethan? Is that what you want? I’ll do it, I’ll prove it to you!’
He’d smiled, looked smug. He’d always known his accusations weren’t true. He and Abby were so alike, all he had to do was look at her to see that she was his.
But Novak was right. Looking back, her radar should’ve flagged it at the start, should’ve warned that something was out of whack. In truth, her defences had been down. She’d been searching for her father at the time, desperate to find him and to finally know that maybe she looked like someone. Then suddenly she’d found out he’d been dead for twenty-three years.
He’d died in an accident at the age of nineteen. She’d talked to a few of the people who’d known him, come away with an impression of a quiet young man, kindhearted, well-liked. The discovery had left an aching emptiness, and Ethan had been there to fill it.
Jodie gave the journalist a level look.
‘People make mistakes, Mr Novak.’ She eyed his wrinkled clothes and uncombed hair, willing to bet he’d spent the night in his car. ‘I’m sure you’ve made your share.’
He dropped his gaze, seeming to take in his own appearance for the first time. He shifted uncomfortably, then flung her a challenging look.
‘So how come you stayed with him so long?’
Jodie debated whether to answer, then relented to make up for her pointed glance at his clothes. ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but I’d never had a home, and I badly wanted to give my daughter a stable one. Is that so hard to understand?’
He looked at his hands, clenched them together. ‘No. No, it isn’t.’
He went silent for a moment. Briefly, she wondered if she’d hit a
nerve. He didn’t exactly look like a guy with a stable home life. She dismissed the thought and got to her feet.
‘Look, I’m sorry you were misled about the visit, but I really have nothing more to say to you.’
He gave a humourless laugh and shook his head. ‘I should’ve known.’
‘Known what?’
‘You were just the same in court, all polite and aloof. Like a brick wall.’
Jodie raised her eyebrows. He charged on.
‘You don’t make it easy for people to help you, do you? God knows, your lawyer did his best for you, but what could he do with all that remote, ice-queen bullshit?’
Jodie blinked. It wasn’t the first time her self-protective shell had been mistaken for coldness. But she’d learned things the hard way: better by far to appear distant than afraid.
Novak was glaring at her, and she wondered just what he had at stake that had got him so riled up. He leaned forward, and when he spoke again his voice was low.
‘You said in court that Ethan was a monster.’
Jodie felt her posture stiffen. Novak went on.
‘You said he was evil, twisted.’
‘I won’t talk about this, I told you.’
‘A family annihilator, isn’t that what your defence attorney called him? A father who kills his own child?’
Jodie flinched. Her hearing seemed to tune in and out, Ethan’s voice washed in on the ebb and flow.
‘The water wasn’t cold, she didn’t wake up.’
Her gut churned.
‘Your attorney brought up other family annihilator cases,’ Novak said. ‘Other fathers, cold-bloodedly murdering their own children. Devoted family men, losing control.’
‘Stop it—’
‘Happens more often than people think, right? Several cases a month, your attorney said. All those monsters. Just like Ethan.’
Jodie managed a whisper. ‘I can’t do this, I told you—’
‘Only no one believed you, did they? No one believed he was a monster.’ Novak’s eyes were latched on to hers. ‘Well, I may be the only person who does.’