End of Story

by Peter Abrahams

  “Cool,” said Bruce Verlaine, owner of Verlaine’s Bar and Grille.

  “I haven’t made up my mind,” Ivy said, shaking up a Grey Goose martini for Danny Weinberg, an investment banker about her own age who came in a couple times a week after work.

  “About what?” Danny said.

  “Ivy got an offer to teach inmates upstate,” said Bruce.

  “Teach writing?” said Danny. Danny had asked to read her stuff, but she was shy about that, kind of a crazy stance for someone who wanted to be a published author.

  Ivy nodded, slid his drink across the bar.

  “Where upstate?”

  “Dannemora.”

  Danny’s hand paused on the stem of the glass. Ivy noticed for the first time that he bit his nails. “Horrible place,” he said.

  “Duh,” said Bruce, his gray ponytail doing that little flip it did when he got sarcastic, which was often. Bruce was bad for business, but he didn’t know it and no one told him. “It’s a maximum-security prison, for Christ’s sake.”

  “I know,” Danny said. “I’ve been there.”

  “Inside?” Ivy said.

  “Back in his former life of crime,” Bruce said. “Danny the Ripper.” Two suburban women with shopping bags came in and Bruce moved toward them, his chin, though a weak one, tilted at an aggressive angle.

  “I’m thinking of buying this place,” Danny said, “just to get rid of him.”

  Ivy laughed.

  “I mean it.” That was the kind of thing that kept her from really liking Danny. He sipped his drink. “I was up there last year, visiting a former client, Felix Balaban.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Stole sixty million dollars,” said Danny. “In effect.”

  “They send people like that to Dannemora?”

  “At first he was in one of those country-club places, but he screwed up.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know the details. Felix is a very aggressive guy, used to getting his own way. That didn’t go over well.”

  “And now?” Ivy said.

  “Now what?”

  “What was he like when you saw him?”

  “A changed man,” Danny said. He looked at her across the bar. Nothing was quite symmetrical about his face, but all the parts added up to something pleasant. “Why are you doing this?”

  “I said I haven’t made up my mind.”

  “What are the factors?”

  “Factors?”

  “In your decision-making process.”

  Did Danny have an actual process for this, a little machine in his mind that took in factors and spat out decisions on command? Ivy didn’t have a machine like that, nothing close. “I’m not sure,” she said.

  “On the plus side, for example,” said Danny, “do they pay?”

  “A little, but that’s—”

  “If you’re a bit short, I could—”

  “I don’t need money.”

  Maybe she said that more forcefully than she’d intended. Danny looked down, swirled his drink. “It’s a bad place, Ivy,” he said, “with nothing but creepy people, prisoners, guards, everybody. Evil’s not too strong a word.”

  “You’re talking me into it,” Ivy said. Decision making, Ivy style. Later—brushing her teeth before bed—came rationale after the fact: Was evil missing from her work?

  A long drive, as Joel had said, but not at all a drag. It got better and better as Ivy rode north in her little rental car, and by the time she entered the Adirondacks, autumn was laid out in full glory. How to describe it, to put it in words? Simply impossible, at least for her; it was as though God had fallen under the influence of Camille Pissarro. And when she left the Northway for smaller roads heading west, it got even better than that.

  ENTERING DANNEMORA. First came a farm, with cows and a man in a plaid shirt tending a big smoky fire. Then an antiques place advertising original Adirondack furniture, some of it displayed in the front yard. After that, a few trailers, modest houses in need of paint jobs, and a four-way stop. Ivy had a MapQuest printout of the town on the seat beside her, was about to consult it when she saw the prison straight ahead.

  The prison was hard to miss, so far out of scale to everything else that it could have been funny in another context, like a little kid’s first stab at drawing a dog, say, where the ears might grow all the way down to the ground. The blank whitewashed walls were thirty feet high, maybe more, and ran on and on, right next to the sidewalk, guard towers jutting out over the street. Ivy drove under their shadows, a long, long block. Just before the end, the wall made a ninety-degree angle, then formed a recessed three-sided area with the gate in the middle. Ivy parked on the street and walked up to it. The gate itself was a black oblong, the paint so thick she couldn’t tell if it was wood or metal, and so big it might have been a prop in a movie about trolls. No windows in it, and no signs, except for one little plaque from the state historical society. DANNEMORA PRISON, 1845.

  Were you supposed to knock?

  Ivy looked around. Across the street stood a bar called Lulu’s by the Gate. Maybe if—

  “Hey!”

  Ivy glanced up. A guard in a blue uniform was leaning out of the tower, a rifle or maybe a shotgun—Ivy didn’t know guns—in his hands, but not pointed at her.

  “I’m here to teach the writing class,” Ivy called up. “Joel Cutler’s old class—I’m taking over. I’ve got my clearance from the bureau of prisons.” She started to reach in her pocket for it, remembered a scene common to many movies, froze. “Okay if I reach into my pocket?”

  “Huh?” said the guard.

  “To show you the clearance paper.”

  The guard squinted down at her. “Administration,” he said, and ducked out of sight.

  “Where’s that?” Ivy called up.

  High above, a blue arm emerged, gestured around the corner.

  Ivy walked to the corner of the prison, up the next street, a long gradual hill with the wall to her right, blocking out the sun. Sweat had broken out on her upper lip by the time she reached the back wall, although it wasn’t hot and she was in pretty good shape. A stone building stood next to the rear wall of the prison. ADMINISTRATION. Ivy went in, introduced herself at reception. A guard with tight cornrows under her cap took Ivy down the hall and into an office with COMMUNITY PROGRAMS on the door.

  “Here’s the new writing person,” the guard said.

  The man behind the desk looked up. A man with a salt-and-pepper mustache, three stripes on his sleeve and a Styrofoam cup of coffee, almost lost in his hairy hand. The sign on his desk read SGT. TOCCO.

  “Hi,” Ivy said. “I’m Ivy Seidel.”

  “Got your clearance?”

  She handed it to him. He looked it over.

  “You’re a pal of what’s-his-name?”

  “Joel?”

  “Yeah,” said Sergeant Tocco. “Joel.” From the way he spoke the name, Ivy could tell he didn’t like Joel. “True he got a movie deal?”

  “Yes.”

  He glanced at the guard. “We knew him when, huh, Taneesha?”

  “Was this the bald one with the stutter?” said Taneesha.

  “Other guy,” said Sergeant Tocco.

  “The…?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What kind of movie deal?” Taneesha said.

  Sergeant Tocco shrugged. “Ask”—he checked the clearance form—“Ivy, here.”

  “It’s for Adam Sandler,” Ivy said. “I don’t know the details.”

  “Adam Sandler,” said Sergeant Tocco. “Funny in your book, Taneesha?”

  “Uh-uh,” said Taneesha. “But comedy’s pretty personal.”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” said Sergeant Tocco.

  Taneesha bit her lip.

  Sergeant Tocco turned to Ivy. “Ever been in a prison before?” he said.

  “No.”

  He nodded as though he’d expected that answer. “Any questions?” he said.

  �
��Maybe it would help if I knew something about the students,” Ivy said.

  “What students?” said Sergeant Tocco.

  “She means the inmates,” said Taneesha.

  “Scum of the earth,” said Sergeant Tocco. “You want to see their jackets?”

  “Jackets?”

  “Their records,” said the sergeant, “what got them in here. Course they’re all innocent, frame-job victims each and every one.”

  “Maybe later,” Ivy said. “For now, just how many, their names, where they come from.”

  “Want to form your own impression, huh?” said the sergeant. “Must be a writer thing, Taneesha. None of ’em ever want to see the jackets. Not until after a month or two.”

  “Supposing they last that long,” said Taneesha.

  The sergeant nodded. He opened a drawer, rummaged around, pulled out a wrinkled sheet of paper. “You got Morales, Perkins, El-Hassam and Balaban. That’s four.”

  “What about Dinsmore from C-block?” said Taneesha.

  “In the hole,” said the sergeant. “And Echeveria ain’t going to be doing much mental work in future, if he lives. As for where they’re from—all downstate, like ninety-nine-point-nine percent of our clientele.”

  His phone started ringing.

  “Anything else?” he said.

  “What happened to Echeveria?” Ivy said.

  “Taneesha’ll tell you on the way down.” He picked up the phone. “And one little tip. That way you have, looking people in the eye? A nono in here.”

  Ivy followed Taneesha along a brightly lit corridor and down some stairs. “What happened to Echeveria?” Ivy said.

  Taneesha waved the question away. “You don’t wanna hear none of that.”

  They came to a steel door. Taneesha knocked on it. “Writing teacher,” she said.

  The door opened. There were two guards on the other side, video cameras, a metal detector.

  “License and car keys, teach,” said one of the guards.

  Ivy handed them over. The second guard stamped the back of her hand.

  “You get ’em back on the way out,” he said, “if this lights up.” He shone an infrared torch at the back of her hand. The word visitor appeared in dark blue on her skin. “And if not—clang.” The guard laughed at his own joke. The laugh spread to the others. Ivy laughed a little, too, didn’t notice right away that the first guard had his hand out.

  She gave him her bag. He dumped it out on a table: spiral notebook, two Bic ballpoints, cell phone, the Collected Poems of Philip Larkin. The guard swept the pens and the phone on the tray with her license and keys, put everything else back in the bag.

  “No pens?” said Ivy.

  “Had a pen sticking in B-block—when was that?” said Taneesha.

  “Labor Day,” said the first guard. “In the eye. I know ’cause I was on.”

  “What are we supposed to write with?” Ivy said.

  “Plus Fourth of July weekend and Memorial Day,” said the first guard.

  There was a uncomfortable silence. Then Taneesha said, “Step on through and we’ll get going.”

  Ivy stepped through the metal detector. She tried it again without earrings, then without earrings and belt, finally without earrings, belt and shoes.

  “Enjoy your flight,” said the second guard.

  Three

  A CO named Moffitt sat outside the library door. Ivy thought she smelled booze on his breath, but of course that was impossible.

  “I just go in?” she said.

  Moffitt looked up at her. He had a patchy little mustache. All the male guards she’d seen so far had mustaches. What was that all about?

  “They don’t bite,” Moffitt said.

  Ivy walked through the door.

  “ ’Cept when they do,” he added in a low voice, probably to himself; but Ivy caught it.

  “Be back in an hour,” Taneesha called after her.

  The library was small and very bright: fluorescent lights, cement-block walls, cement floor, metal shelves half-full of dilapidated books, mostly paperbacks. In the center of the room stood a rectangular steel table, bolted to the floor. On card-table chairs around it sat four men in tan jumpsuits, one at the far end, one on the left side, two on the right, spaced about as far from each other as they could be.

  “Hi,” Ivy said. “I’m Ivy, the new writing teacher.”

  They looked at her; but not in the eye. A no-no.

  Ivy sat down in the empty chair at the near end of the table.

  “Maybe it would help if you all introduce yourselves,” she said.

  Silence.

  Then the man on the left—red-brown skin, tattooed arms, slicked-back oily hair—said, “Introduce? I know these guys already, way too much.”

  One of the men on the right—big, black, gap-toothed—laughed. The man next to him—slight, white, balding—glanced quickly around, then snickered. How could things go wrong so fast?

  Then the man at the end, black, thin-faced, close-trimmed gray goatee, sitting up very straight, gaze directed at Ivy’s forehead, said, “El-Hassam.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Ivy said. “What’s your first name?”

  El-Hassam shook his head, a controlled, deliberate movement; there was even something regal about it. “No need for first names here,” he said.

  The tattooed man on the left leaned forward. His forearms were huge, bulging with cords of muscle. “You now entering a last-name zone.”

  “Seidel,” said Ivy. “And yours?”

  He blinked. “Morales,” he said.

  “Perkins,” said the big man. He had a deep, rumbly voice.

  “Balaban,” said the little white guy. His voice was scratchy.

  “But you can call him Felix,” Morales said.

  Balaban looked down, almost hanging his head.

  “The exception,” El-Hassam said, “that proves the rule.”

  “What the hell’s that mean?” said Morales. “Makes no sense.”

  “Ask Ms. Seidel,” said El-Hassam.

  What the hell did it mean? Her very first chance to actually do something with this job—and at that moment she realized she really wanted to do something with it, in fact was tremendously excited on the inside—and she was about to blow it. Then, like a miracle, came a memory fragment from some long-gone pedant boyfriend, of whom there’d been too many.

  “It’s an old saying,” Ivy said, “from back when proves meant ‘tests.’ So it means the exception that tests the rule, the hard case that tells whether the rule is right or not.”

  Silence. They were all looking at her, although none in the eye. Then Perkins laughed, deep and rumbling. “That’s Felix,” he said.

  “The hard case,” said Morales.

  Then they were all laughing, Ivy, too; all laughing except for Felix, but even he had a smile on his face, if a little uncertain. The second group laughing jag that had enveloped her since she’d been inside. A big surprise.

  Moffitt, the CO, leaned around the corner and glanced into the room. El-Hassam stopped laughing. The stoppage spread quickly, too.

  Silence.

  “Proves means ‘tests,’” El-Hassam said.

  “You knew that, Felix?” said Morales.

  Felix shook his head.

  “Shit, man,” said Morales, “you should get yourself a refund.”

  “Refund?” said Felix.

  “On your college degree,” said Morales. He turned to Ivy. “Felix here went to Harvard U-ni-ver-si-ty.”

  “No,” said Felix.

  A vein throbbed in Morales’s right arm, distorting the tattooed L in LATIN KINGS. “You calling me a liar, Felix?” His tone was light, almost friendly.

  “Oh, no, no, no, no,” said Felix. “Just that it was actually Cornell.”

  “ ’Cause I don’t tell no lies,” Morales said. “Ain’t that right, Felix?”

  Felix nodded.

  “Felix here went to Harvard U-ni-ver-si-ty,” Morales said.

  A long
silence. Then Felix nodded again, very slightly, but he did.

  “Lots of great writers didn’t go to college at all,” Ivy said. A remark that didn’t really follow, but she wanted to change the direction things were going and couldn’t think of anything else.

  “For instance?” said El-Hassam.

  “Shakespeare,” Ivy said.

  “That true?” said Morales. “Shakespeare didn’t go to no college?”

  Ivy nodded.

  “You know Shakespeare?” Perkins said.

  “Some,” said Ivy.

  “Let’s hear,” Perkins said.

  “You mean know by heart?” said Ivy.

  “Yeah,” said Perkins. “Know.”

  Shakespeare, by heart. She’d taken a Shakespeare course, but all the way back in sophomore year, and it had been an 8:30 A.M. class, so—

  “‘Tomorrow,’” she suddenly heard herself saying.

  “…and tomorrow and tomorrow.

  Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,”

  Oh God, could she have chosen worse?

  “To the last syllable of recorded time;

  And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

  The way to dusty death.”

  It got quiet, so quiet Ivy could hear Moffitt burping outside the door.

  Perkins leaned back in his chair. “Damn,” he said.

  “Dude must have spent time inside,” Morales said.

  “I don’t think they know much about his life,” Ivy said.

  “Spent time inside, take my word for it,” said Morales. “What about Hitler?”

  “Hitler?” said Ivy.

  “He was a writer,” Morales said. “I read his book. He go to college?”

  “I don’t know,” Ivy said.

  “Knew a lot of shit, man,” Morales said. “Hitler. It’s all in the book.”

  “He started World War Two,” said El-Hassam. “A hundred million people died.”

  “So?” said Morales. “Whose fault is that?”

  Another silence. The vein in Morales’s arm jumped again.

  “What come after ‘dusty death’?” said Perkins.

  “The next line?” Ivy said. “I’ve forgotten.” In truth, she hadn’t. Next came the whole tale-told-by-an-idiot part, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Way too depressing. “Anyway, aren’t we supposed to be writing?”