became a single unit, apple
another, and so forth. In effect, we made English into a pictographic language, akin to Chinese. It’s notoriously difficult for Westerners to learn such systems, because we’re trained to think of words as divisible. In a sense, then, William’s knowing the alphabet was more a hindrance than a help. We worked together for close to two years, and on my thirty-fourth birthday, he made to me a gift of a letter he had written, without my help or knowledge. It described our cell. Though its style was repetitive, and its subject matter a little too close for comfort (shades of Nabokov’s ape), it did possess a kind of crude poetry, and more to the point, it was spelled perfectly. I hung it near the window. It’s the first thing I look at when I wake up in the morning. MY CHIEF OCCUPATION is running the prison library. Officially, there’s a state employee in charge, but it’s not a job with a good retention rate, and thus far I have had to train three new initiates, the latest of whom is a newly minted Harvard graduate. His name is Adam, and he holds a bachelor’s degree in Yiddish literature. Like me, he hails from flyover country, and despite my best efforts to the contrary—one swiftly learns to eschew sentimentality—we have developed a rapport. He has never hidden his true motivation for working here: he’s collecting material for a book. Recently he asked me to take a look at his letter to literary agents. It was well written, if a bit cerebral. He cited Foucault and referred to “the interiority of prison as a social space.” I told him that that was all well and good, but in my opinion, he’d be better off taking a more narrative tack. Sell yourself, I said. He told me he’d think about it. It was he who first suggested that I teach a class, although it took him a good while to convince me. Aside from my (quite reasonable) skepticism—why would a bunch of felons want to talk about philosophy?—I had a much more elementary cause for concern. At that point I still hadn’t made any friends. I knew I was thought of as aloof. From there it’s a short trip to becoming an object of ridicule, and thence an even shorter trip to becoming a target. But boredom is a potent catalyst. If it can get us to do things like bungee-jump and shoot heroin, it’s surely enough to get me in front of a classroom. I decided to begin with a general introduction: what is philosophy, and why is it important? I typed up a sheet with sources, Adam put up a sign in the library, and together we hoped for the best. As expected, the initial response was tepid: three people, two of whom had the idea that I might pass out dirty pictures, and who left when I did not. Something must have taken root, though, because I tripled attendance over the course of the next lecture, a two-parter covering the early Greeks. Heraclitus’s statement that “character is destiny” triggered some mild debate, but what really got the conversation going were Zeno’s paradoxes, which made intuitive sense to a bunch of men staring down infinity. By the time I got to Aristotle, I was pulling in seven regulars, and the lecture on Descartes brought us to ten, at which point the warden capped enrollment, citing safety concerns. We’ve established a waiting list. In retrospect it seems obvious that the class should have succeeded. People in prison have nothing to do but think, and their confinement tangibly demonstrates the power of abstractions: love, hate, desire, vengeance, justice, punishment, freedom, hope. They might not have all the jargon down, but they have more than enough energy and fervor to fill an hour every other week. They are, I believe, the perfect students. With Adam’s help, too, I have begun a correspondence course. It took a fair bit of digging to find an accredited Ph.D. program. I wrote to Linda to see if she’d arrange to send a transcript, enabling me to skip some of the prerequisites. She never replied. It’s just as well. I’m starting from scratch, however you look at it. I HEAR FROM DREW that Yasmina’s wedding was an affair to remember. She and Pedram live in Los Angeles, where he works for her father. She’s due next spring. THERE HAS BEEN considerable legal wrangling over Alma’s estate. Citing health problems, Palatine recused himself as executor, throwing a major kink into the process. Taxes needed paying; my lawyers (I now have several) needed paying. Andrei has brought a civil suit. And so forth, everyone grabbing for their piece of the pie. Leaping into the fray is a certain nonprofit organization that pursues compensation for victims of the Holocaust. Eric knew whereof he spoke when he said that Alma’s family had worked for the Third Reich. It’s unclear whether the estate will be forced to pay, less clear how much, still less which creditor takes precedence. What about the money held in trust? What about interest? I don’t keep close tabs on the various motions and maneuverings. It’s a mess for other people to sort out. Even if anything is left for me, I’ll never get to use it. Which is fine by me. In this way, prison becomes me. I have a roof over my head. I have three meals a day. I have books, and students, and time. Nobody is looking over my shoulder. Here, my opinions carry weight. I am respected. Once I believed that I stood above the judgment of the world, and while that continues to feel less true every day, I do take some small satisfaction in knowing that I’ve found a home. Alma once suggested to me that freedom obtains when we think of it. If this is true, then I ought to be the freest man on earth. And who’s to say I’m not? When I am outside, walking the yard, I look up at the great gray walls, at rows of tiny portals and curls of barbed wire and cameras and floodlights and towers presided over by shadows—I look at these instruments of control, and I know that none of them can penetrate my mind. I picture the teeming mass held in by those walls; I consider my place among that mass; and I think: my ivory tower. The one thing I miss is the bookend. The police took it away as evidence, and anyway, I’d never be allowed to keep such a sharp, heavy object in my cell. I don’t know where it is. In a storage locker, perhaps, in a box. My friend. I wish him well. Dear Joseph
— I apologize that it has taken me so long to reply to you. I’ve struggled to find the right words, repeatedly discarding earlier drafts. Language seems wholly inadequate to the task. My emotions change, even as I set them down on paper, and they will have changed again by the time Iput this in the mailbox. California has been lovely. The students are a good bunch, the faculty, a genuine boon. And I would be remiss not to mention the weather. It is no small thing to wake up every day to perfection. Whether such abundant pleasantness is good for the soul I leave up to you to decide. This isn’t to say that it feels like home. I had always thought that I would finish out my days near the place of my birth, and to have been called away at my age still amazes me. Perhaps some are meant to live in exile. I suppose that’s true regardless of where one lives, however long one lives there. All earthly homes are temporary. One does not need to be a believer to appreciate the truth of this. To answer your question: I have been in contact with your parents. I will ask them again to visit you. I can’t say whether they’ll listen to me, of course. These terrible events have been hard on all of us but, understandably, hardest on them. No matter whatyou say, they will continue to fault themselves, and they resent being made to feel guilty. They are angry at you, very angry. As am I. I wish I could say otherwise. My office demands otherwise. But you and I don’t have that kind of relationship, do we? You didn’t ask to be forgiven, which leads me to believe you’re not seeking an easy out. Good. There are none. You’ve done a grievous wrong. I am sorry if it sounds cruel ofme to say so. Having always regardedyou as a seeker of truth, I expect that you will not flinch to face it. Peace unto you. Father Fred As for remorse: yes, I feel it. Of course I do. I took two lives, wrecked at least one family, brought shame and grief to myself and those I love. Of course I wish things had turned out differently. Sometimes, when I am in the mood, I imagine other possible worlds, worlds in which I am not this person but another. I think about Alma. I think about my brother. I weave together past and present, meditating on the foregone. It’s a silly game, giving reasons, pointing fingers, and I ought to know better by now. But I can’t help myself. It’s in my nature to wonder. It’s who I am.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I am indebted to Professor Alexi Burgess of Stanford University, whose critique of an early draft proved invaluable in crafting t
he final product. He is a patient and thoughtful editor, and should be held blameless for any errors, omissions, or philosophical grotesquerie. Thanks also to Luvh Rakhe, Elisabeth Mecking, Wes Shih, Jeff Forer, Dr. Eric Banks, Gary Banks, Rabbi Dr. James Davis, Jonathan Davis, Jes Handley, and Officer Jesse Grant of the Berkeley, California, Police Department. I am blessed to count as friends the writers Norman Lasca, Saul Austerlitz, Harlan Coben, Owen King, and Gregg Hurwitz. Their encouragement and fellowship have buoyed me. Thanks to Chris Pepe, Ivan Held, Amy Brosey, and all at Putnam; David Shelley and the entire team at Little, Brown; Amanda Ross, and Richard and Judy; Liza, Havis, and Victoria. Thanks to my parents and siblings. Once again, everything herein is my wife’s as much as mine. Welcome, Oscar.
Jesse Kellerman Page 26