by Peter Seth
“Your mother wanted to come,” he said into the phone, sitting across from me. “But she was too – what – overwhelmed lately.” He gave me a shrug and smiled through the smudged plexiglas barrier. The entry processing for visitors – the personal searches and the waiting, the waiting, the waiting – took more than an hour sometimes.
“I can see why,” I said. He seemed more tired than I had ever seen him before. The fluorescent light in the Visitors’ Room sucked the life out of anyone’s face, but I had never noticed how old he looked. “How are you doing?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” he said. “Your mother’s on that Metrecal diet again, so guess who’s starving?”
I tried to laugh, seeing that he was trying to cheer me up.
“Stop at Vinnie’s on the way home,” I said. “And get yourself some cheese sticks. You deserve ’em.”
“Food here sucks, I bet,” he said, repeating what I had told him many times before.
“You have no idea,” I said. “They make Ma look like Betty Crocker.”
Dad laughed, “And how are you sleeping?”
“OK,” I lied. But then said truthfully, “Sometimes it gets cold at night, but all that could change when I go to the new place, so what does it matter?” I couldn’t bear to say the name Sing Sing.
“You want me to, I’ll call ’em up in advance and tell ’em to keep it nice and warm up there,” he said. “Maybe they don’t know that they’re dealing with Heat-ler here.”
It made me laugh and it made me sad to hear my Dad say that. Happy to hear him use our family nickname for him, the one he so hated, just to try to get a smile out of me, and sad, to think of home.
I had to say something or one of us might start to cry; I couldn’t stand that. I know that he wouldn’t want to cry in front of me.
“Remember when Mom was the class mother in my fifth grade class?” I said, letting the memory rush back. “And it was Halloween? They made this big party at school, and Mom came dressed up as a witch, with a big black hat and an orange face and her front teeth blacked out?”
My mother, a shy woman, had never done anything this flamboyant or theatrical before. Before or since.
“She visited all the other classes and scared all the little kids, but in a good way. She was the hit of the school.”
I had been at a new school that year, and I think she wanted to help me fit in. I was so surprised that she would do that; I didn’t realize at the time that it was all for my benefit.
“No, I don’t remember that . . .” he said, with a sad smile, his eyes misting over. “But it sounds terrific.”
“It was,” I assured him, wanting him to remember something that fine, something from so long ago, when things weren’t so messed up, before I had ruined everything. “She was really something.”
My father blinked and looked up at the ceiling. He started to say something, stopped, then started again, “You know we wanted to have other kids, but it turned out that we couldn’t. Your mother went to a couple of doctors.”
I looked into my father’s eyes clearly, saying, “I didn’t know that. I mean, I coulda guessed but . . . Who would want to have just one kid, especially if it turned out to be me?”
“Don’t say that!” he said right back, gripping the phone tightly, looking straight at me. “This was just one crazy thing. You’ve been a good kid your whole life. A good son. . . . What I’m saying is: if we just had to have one son, I was glad he was you.”
I wasn’t going to cry; that did nobody any favors. I held tight to my feelings and refused to cry, even though I was crumbling inside at the sight of this brave, beaten man. And I couldn’t help but think about the Princes, with one child, afraid to have a second one, and my parents, with one child, unable to have a second one. And I thought how cruel and unfair and ironic this world can be – to everyone. No one gets out alive.
“I should have known that something was going on –” he declared.
“Please don’t start that –” I cut him off, not wanting to hear him try to take responsibility for something that wasn’t his to take.
“I wasn’t really being a good parent,” he continued.
“Don’t say that!” I heard my voice get louder. “This has nothing to do with you!”
But my Dad just paused and laughed lightly, shaking his head sadly as if I didn’t, and never would, understand. But that’s OK: he didn’t understand me either. We loved each other imperfectly, I’m afraid. But then again, no love is perfect. I’d thought that I had a perfect love with Rachel. And, in a horrible, doomed-from-the-start way, I did.
“Is there anything else I can bring you?” he asked.
What did I really want? “There’s only one thing that I really want,” I said. “And you can’t bring it to me.”
“What is it?” he wanted to know.
“The jukebox at Bailey’s,” I said softly, holding on to one last teardrop.
He didn’t know what I meant, and I couldn’t explain it to him.
Record of Events #36 - entered Thursday, 8:48 P.M.
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They moved me a couple of days ago with a bunch of other inmates, in a high-security bus with cages on the windows and chains on our legs. It’s hard to walk when your feet are shackled – especially when both of your legs have been broken – but I guess that’s the whole idea. I got to see highways and cars and people in the outside world. The bus even drove on some of the same highways of my own “great escape” that was depicted in maps in the newspapers. Everything I saw wounded my heart, but I was not going to show any emotion. Not in a bus full of murderers. I guess that would have to include “me.”
People in other cars passing us looked up at the bus with expressions of disgust and curiosity: Who were those evil guys in that bus and what did they do to be caged up like that? Where were they going? And wouldn’t we all be better off if that bus drove off the Throgs Neck Bridge and drowned everybody inside? A fair question – one that I contemplated as we crossed the bridge. I craned my neck and looked through the caged window across the water to the Whitestone Bridge. That was the bridge that Rachel and I “escaped” on when we were driving up to the Quarry with those “things” in my trunk. That’s where I had that moment when I was tempted to pull over to those cops on the side of the road and confess everything. But I didn’t, and that was a long time ago. And remember: “All theory, dear friend, is gray.”
“Ten minutes, ladies!” the big guard in the front seat, next to the driver, yelled back to us, shackled to our seats in the cage behind him. I looked out of the window, through the heavy black grill, drinking in the last views of civilization that I might see for a long, long time. Trees, houses, stores – simple things looked exotic and unreachable. Who knew when I would next ride in a bus, or any vehicle? Would my next ride be in an ambulance, or perhaps a hearse? Such was my rosy future, my glowing prospect.
They herded us, clanking in leg chains, off the bus at the Sing Sing Correctional Facility, a maximum-security prison operated by the New York State Department of Correctional Services. As you get close to Sing Sing, you can see the Hudson River, just as you can from Columbia (at least in winter, before the leaves grow in). Same river, different institutions: both renowned molders of young American men. They processed us, yelled at us, tried to scare us – and in my case, certainly succeeded. But I’ve learned that I can pretend to be anything now: brave, tough, psychotic, dangerous, normal. I can even pretend to be an everyday, golly-gee, teenage-type person, as you have just seen (starting on Page One of “The Summer” – hahaha.) I think I can survive this.
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Now that I’ve been in prison for a while, I’m actually better than I’ve been in a long time. Things aren’t so crazy. I know exactly what’s expected of me here. I’ve befriended my cellmate (armed robbery) by proofreading his letters to his lawyer, so that I don’t feel thr
eatened twenty-four hours a day. Unlike at Columbia, where I felt pressure twenty-four hours a day. That may be the best thing I can cling to: there is no homework in prison.
One thing about being here at Sing Sing: I’m back to being the Smartest Kid in the Class. Except I hear that there’s this old math genius in another cell block whom they call “the Professor.” He helps other guys with their appeals and court motions in exchange for cigarettes, better food, etc. He supposedly was an accountant for the Flying Dragons, this major Chinatown crime family, in for wire fraud and torture. Strange combination, unless he tortured someone with a wire. These Asians are getting into everything.
I exercise almost constantly, doing push-ups on my cell floor. In many ways, I’m stronger than I’ve ever been before. My legs are almost completely healed, just as that surgeon said they would be. Because of the inherent danger in a place like this, I’ve found that my senses have become sharpened. I’m out in the general population now, but I’m learning how to take care of myself, among these monsters. I’m always “looking over both of my shoulders at the same time.” When fear is real, when paranoia is justified, the primal senses take over. The Hunter-or-Hunted mind resurfaces. It’s called self-preservation, and it’s really a wonderful thing. It’s kept me going through some pretty difficult times.
There was one good outcome from my trial: because Eleanor was Herb’s girlfriend and he actually was involved in organized crime, I was befriended by members of a crime family that was the enemy of Herb’s family. They figured if I was messing with Herb, I had to be a stand-up guy. They gave me protection and a lot more. Of course, I never told them the truth, but by then I was very good at that.
I’ve almost been beaten up and have been punched a couple of times since I’ve been here, but I haven’t been raped. That is my major achievement since the time of my incarceration; I’m not kidding. This is what I’ve been reduced to: animal survival. But I accept it. In the yard, in the shower, around the corners, in the shadows – no matter what my new friends in the waste management business can do for me. This is my everyday world for twenty-five to life. Isn’t that insane? But, in some bizarre way, my everyday world is the same as it’s always been: a life lived inside my head, with all my broken dreams and memories, imaginary triumphs and past injustices, flickering past constantly, ready to be relived and perfected. Nothing has changed in that sense: I’m still a prisoner of myself. But I finally got to escape Long Island after all, although not quite in the way I had imagined.
They let me have a couple of books in here, and, just to be perverse, I took some of my Columbia books. The Montaigne essays. He says, “The most certain sign of wisdom is cheerfulness.” Oh Michel, how am I supposed to be cheerful in here? In here where the racket never stops, and there is the constant threat of violence. All my life I wondered what I’d be when I grew up. A doctor? Or a lawyer? Now I know: I grew up to be a convict.
Actually, the noise in this cellblock isn’t so bad. Not as bad as the Nassau County lock-up. I can shut out this noise. Sometimes I wad up pieces of toilet paper and stuff them in my ears. I have to wet the paper and squish it up well because it’s kind of scratchy. But when I put the wet wads in my ears, it feels kind of cool and tickly, and I’m more alone, more inside. This cell is really not much smaller than my dorm room shared with Roommate A, and this one my parents don’t have to pay for, except, of course, as ordinary New York State taxpayers. Not to mention that this room has its own toilet and sink, right there, at the foot of the bed. How convenient.
I know I’m being watched in here. That’s the whole idea, isn’t it? Being watched by guards with guns because I’m a danger to society. Being watched because I might kill again. Isn’t that foolish? There was only one Eleanor Prince, one Nanci Jerome, and yes, one Rachel Prince – and they’re all gone. I have no other “enemy” or “adversary.” I’ve always been a peaceful person. In fact, I’m peaceful right now! . . . That is verging on a joke. But here, in this cell, I am going to have to find some kind of peace, some way to survive. So that if I get out – when I get out, I must stay positive. I NEED MORE PAPER!!!!
Record of Events #37 - entered Saturday, 6:15 A.M.
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To some people, I’ll always be the Ivy League Killer, the Kid Who Killed His Girlfriend’s Mother and Friend, the weird Leopold-and-Loeb-type kid who was in the papers for a while in that circus of a trial. I know I’ll never get beyond that with some people. Maybe not even with myself. But life goes on . . . doesn’t it? And you never know about things in this absurd/tragic world: The Mets just won the World Series. Really! In 1969. They beat the Orioles in five. The Mets!? Won the World Series! And a man, an astronaut, actually walked on the moon this past summer. So truly anything is possible.
They’re going to be turning off the lights soon, so I have to end this for now. But I know that I’ll wake up tomorrow, and everything will be the same. Nothing will have changed in here, except for one more day off my sentence.
I never thought that my life would end this way, scribbling in a little room, running my thoughts, around and around. In a small, cement rectangle. All corners, and no escape. There is only one serious question: How to live your life and not waste it? But I won’t even get to try to answer it, because from now on I will have to live prison life.
I’m back to where I was at the beginning, talking to myself, with no one listening. Even in a cell like this, I’m going to try to find a decent life. Van Gogh painted a cell like this, and it was beautiful. There must be a way to see this cell as if van Gogh painted it. There must be a way to see the beauty in everything. Damned if I know what it is, but I’m never going to stop searching for it. I know it’s out there/in here, waiting to be discovered, waiting to be felt.
Maybe I’ll be a late-bloomer, if and when I get out of here. I’ll still be in my forties. Maybe I’ll find a cure for cancer. Of course, I’d probably have to go back and do pre-med to do that, and I guess that’s not in the cards. Too much science. OK, maybe I’ll be the patent lawyer for the guy who finds the cure for cancer. Do they let convicted felons become lawyers? They should: the acorn doesn’t fall so far from the tree.
One of the best things I’ve read since I’ve been in here was that when Jonas Salk found the vaccine to prevent polio, he refused to patent it. He left it open to anybody to make it, to help stop polio. He could have made a zillion dollars if he had patented it and charged just a little for each shot. Instead, he gave it away, for the good of humanity. Wow. That is a good, pure thing. I need to believe in good, pure things right now. I need to believe in mercy and charity and helping others. I need to believe in the goodness and worth of living, and at the same time, watch my back every day, for the approaching knife.
Maybe I’ll be a writer. After all, I’ve had a lot of practice here, in various cells, filling up these notebooks, trying to tell the truth just as my excellent new lawyer asked me to. But if I ever get out, I’ll tell other people’s stories, stories of some of these guys I’ve met here and in the Nassau County lock-up, stories that are a million times sadder than mine. They say there’s this famous writer who comes here and gives a writer’s workshop, but no one can remember his name. Who knows? It’s better than working in the kitchen or the laundry, and it would get me out of this damned box.
They just put out the lights. Now I’m writing in shadow, from memory and with hope. Hope that’ll I’ll be able to read this in the morning. Hope that someday someone will read it, the Parole Board, or my judge, or The Judge, somebody/anybody who’ll understand. Who’ll understand and maybe even forgive.
Every night I ask myself: How did a pure, innocent love such as ours lead to such a terrible end? I’m still working on that one. If she had just asked me to help her get rid of Eleanor, well, first I would have tried to talk her out of it. But after that, who knows? I might have helped her anyway. And I would have found a way where we wouldn’t have gotten caught, tha
t’s for damned sure.
Record of Events #38 - entered Sunday, 12:03 A.M.
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I lay in my hard prison bed at night, trying to see what I’m writing, believing and not believing where I am. I can’t really breathe in here; you know that I like to breathe. And I am reaching new levels of Negative Learning every day, beyond what I ever thought possible.
I listen to my heart – b’thump . . . b’thump . . . b’thump. I relive all the mistakes I’ve made in my life, the mistakes I made with Rachel, the mistakes made at the trial, the mistakes made that night when all of our lives ended. I replay every episode, pick at every wound, pick at every word, and I am still not satisfied. But when I finally close my eyes at night, I still see her face, those blue-blue eyes, that Mona Lisa smile . . . and it makes me happy inside. I never got a chance to say goodbye to Rachel, so I say goodbye to her every night. I can’t help it: after everything that happened, I still love the girl who ruined my life.
I close my eyes, and just like that, I’m back in The Zone. I hear her final, passionate, desperate “I love youuuuu!” right before the crash, echoing in my brain – or did I just make that up? I stay very still, withdraw into my purest self, and try to recreate something real, something basic: what it was like to be in love with Rachel Prince.
But as I told the Doggy Without Braces, everything is temporary. So why on Earth should I moan? I memorize these walls every day and every night, and I try to see beyond them. I try to see all the way to the stars, to that same infinite Milky Way that I saw at Camp Mooncliff “many summers ago, when the Earth was still new.” I think that I can make myself believe anything, even that I’ll get out of here someday, and that my luck will eventually even out. Maybe I’ll get the chance to live a decent life, the life of service and generosity that I should have lived. I honestly don’t know. Maybe the best thing for everyone is to just forget about me. Pretend I’m already dead, that I just “disappeared” like Eleanor Prince and poor, fat Nanci Jerome.