The Chaplain washes his hands. He looks at himself in the mirror above the sink. Dead eyes. Hollowed out. Black circles. A day’s growth of hair on his chin and cheeks. His hair stands up on his head from running his fingers through it. His teeth are yellowing with age and coffee and red wine. Stained. This mortal body, he thinks. We are all going to die. He adjusts his pants, his shirt. Splashes water over his face. Washes his hands again. Leaves. Goes back. To him. To his end.
It seems to the Chaplain as if all of civilization has come to a halt. How can we be a civil society and do this to our members? Running scared and furious.
“How,” Miranda echoes in his head, “can he have done that to them?”
The Chaplain wants to believe that it was a mistake, that it wasn’t premeditated. That the Prisoner found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. After all, he doesn’t remember parts of the crime. But the Chaplain has seen the files. He has seen the pictures. There is blood on this man’s hands. Literally. Lots of blood. And everything he’s said so far – his callous holdups, the killing of people during robberies, pulling the plug on his father, the blatant disregard for human life – all of this leads him to believe that, yes, the Prisoner must certainly be guilty of the charges. But does he deserve this punishment? That’s the true question. One which lawmakers and politicians have to decide every day. Right or wrong.
Wrong. Of course it’s wrong.
There is commotion in the corridor with the COs. Running. Shouting. The Chaplain heads towards it quickly. Picks up his pace. It’s CO1 and CO2, they are back. On the 8 a.m. shift after leaving late last night, just after midnight. They are in the cell and the door is wide open. Three other COs, ones he has not seen before, are standing outside looking in.
The Prisoner is on the floor, face down. He is still. CO1 is shouting something over and over. CO2 has backed out into the hallway.
He shouts, “Call the doctor.”
“What happened?” The Chaplain rushes in towards the Prisoner.
“Stay back, Chaplain,” CO1 says.
“But what happened?”
CO2 says, “He collapsed. He was standing there, looking out at us, but then he turned white and fell over. Hit his head.”
“Fainted,” the Chaplain says. “He fainted. There’s no air in this room. Couldn’t they have put him in a room with windows?” He realizes he is shouting this. The COs are looking at him. He kneels next to the Prisoner and carefully rolls him over. The Prisoner’s forehead has an egg-sized lump on it, slowly turning blue.
“Get me some ice.”
The Prisoner’s eyes open slightly, and he smiles at the Chaplain. There he is, being cradled in the Chaplain’s arms, lying on the floor.
“I was hoping it wasn’t a dream,” he says quietly.
“What?” The Chaplain holds him.
“I was hoping that I had died, that it was that easy, that I wouldn’t wake up once I fell to the floor. My whole body felt heavy. I fell. I didn’t want to wake up.”
Slowly, the Prisoner stands. Ice is brought in and placed with a towel on his forehead. He is given an Aspirin but nothing else. Soon a doctor arrives and looks into the Prisoner’s eyes, checks his pulse, feels his neck.
“Wouldn’t want me to be sick before you kill me,” the Prisoner says.
The doctor has no gallows humour and barely smirks. He gives the Prisoner water and then leaves the room in a hurry.
Again, the Chaplain and the Prisoner are alone in the room. Time has passed. Too much time, according to the Chaplain. Such a waste of time.
“It was slow motion,” the Prisoner says.
“What was?”
“When I fell. I could see and feel myself falling, but it was happening really slowly and my body couldn’t react to it. It was fucking weird.”
“Have you never fainted before?”
The Prisoner shakes his head. “No. Just a lot of concussions, but you go out quickly when you get knocked on the head. There’s no slow motion at all.” He thinks for a minute. “I hope the chair isn’t anything like that,” he says. “What if it happens in slow motion? What if I can feel the pain?” He tears up slightly, but then turns away from the Chaplain, faces the wall. The egg on his forehead is dark and mean looking. “What if it takes a long time?”
“I’m sure it won’t. I’m sure they won’t let it. I won’t let it.”
“But how can you do anything to help me?”
The Chaplain thinks about this. He can’t do anything. Nothing. All he can do is be there. Watch it happen. This is the crux of it, isn’t it? The powerlessness of the situation. And, in that, he realizes why they do this, why some people might be for the death penalty – because they want the Prisoner to feel the same powerlessness over his life that he gave his victims. They want the convicted to know what it’s like to have absolutely no control over anything. Like the victims, but also like the victims’ families. The only control they have is to see him die. To know that he has met the same fate as their loved ones.
“When I was younger,” the Chaplain says, “I fainted all the time. I have no idea why. Low blood sugar or maybe anemia or something. Anyway, I would get these feelings, hear a buzzing in my ears, the world would go white. I could still see things, but everything became bleached out suddenly. And I knew I was going to faint. So I would sit down, wherever I was. Just plop down. Sometimes on the sidewalk, or I’d get off my bike and sit on the curb. I would faint. I would keel over for about five minutes and then come to. I remember that slow motion feeling very well. It’s almost like falling asleep, when you are half-awake and half-asleep and feel no control over your body, over your mind. You let other forces take control of you then. And you fall asleep.”
“It’s like falling asleep,” the Prisoner echoes quietly.
“Yes. Think of it that way.”
“It’s just so hot in here. There’s no air.”
The Chaplain looks around. There is one vent, up high. He stands and walks over to it. He reaches up and feels for air. Nothing.
“These old buildings are hard to cool.”
“Saving money, I bet. Why keep me comfortable just to kill me?” A dry laugh. “Hey, did you remember my cookies?”
The Chaplain turns. “Oh, shit.”
“No Pepto-Bismol, no cookies. What good are you, man? I’m a dead man, you know. The least you could do is remember my cookies.”
Two Aisles Over
There is someone in the storage unit two aisles over. Larry heard a car pull up some nights, again and again. He has seen a light under the door. He sneaks out at night, attempting to discover who it is, but finds nothing out. He gets a quick look at the car but it’s not familiar. A nondescript four-door. Kids’ stuff in the back. Garbage. Old pop cans, crumpled takeout bags. A few boards, some tools.
And Jack is following him.
Twice Larry sees Jack’s sedan in the rear-view mirror. Twice he pulls over, hoping to confront his older brother, but Jack drives past and when Larry tries to chase him down, Jack takes off and disappears.
No one, or no mouse, has been in his office lately. He’s caught nothing with his traps. The cans haven’t moved. The door stays shut. Mona comes and goes from the office in the daytime and her boys scooter up and down the aisles of the storage facility, laughing and talking and shouting and wiping out. Larry tries to ignore them, but he can’t take his eyes off Mona. She is always alone, there seems to be no partner, no husband, no one but Mona and the young guy behind the front desk who reads magazines or watches the screen and picks his zits all day, feet up on the counter. The neon Storage Mart sign buzzes and crackles above him. Mona has a back office and she rarely comes out. Bookkeeping. Whatever she is doing. Larry is fascinated. He spends more and more time at his office. Day and night. He hangs a poster on the wall with tape. A black-and-white Eiffel Tower. He vacuums his rug with a vacuum borrowed from the guy at the front desk. He wipes his glass desk clean, tidying up the fingerprints. He researches things on
his laptop and he watches Mona and sometimes catches her watching him, and he tries to figure out who is renting the storage unit two aisles over.
Summer turns to fall. The twins have a party in the front office. There are balloons and a cake and lots of kids running up and down the aisles for the day in the rain. Larry props his door open slightly in order to get some fresh air. The worms come under the door escaping the rain. Larry’s coffee cans are dwindling. He’s lost the urge to do anything but sit in his office. The adrenalin rush isn’t there anymore, he feels nothing good or bad when he comes back with money. Even though he has half of what he had before, he figures he has enough to last a while. Besides, whenever he needs money, he can always get some.
At night, if he isn’t in his apartment watching the screen, he is in the office. Occasionally he hears a car start or a door shut. Coming from the mysterious other tenant. Sometimes, the car parked there drives away and then comes back. Occasionally he hears uneven footsteps, as if someone is limping, and no car. He listens to all the sounds and can’t figure out what this guy is doing. He only comes at night. No one else in this whole huge place goes into the storage units. Just Larry and the guy two aisles over. And Larry knows it’s a man because when he stands outside and listens, he can hear him cough and clear his throat.
One day, towards dusk, there is a knock on Larry’s rolled-up door. He stiffens at his desk, quickly turns off his laptop, puts it in the drawer in the desk. Rubs his hands over his eyes and stands. He rolls up the door all the way.
“Jack.”
“Lawrence.”
“Don’t call me that. What are you doing here?”
“Just thought I’d visit.” Jack starts to walk into the storage unit. Larry sees him take note of the coffee cans lining the wall.
Larry pushes him out. Rolls shut the door behind them. “Listen,” he says. “I don’t want you here. Stop following me.”
Jack laughs. He looks out into the darkening day, down the aisle and into the woods behind the storage facility. He smiles at Larry. “I’m just visiting, man. Take it easy.”
A flash of headlights down where Jack looked. Larry sees it. Jack holds his hand up, signaling to a car near the edge of the wood. A sedan.
“Who’d you bring here?” Larry asks.
“Just a friend picking me up.” Jack nods towards Larry’s door. “What are you doing in there, Lawrence?”
“Nothing. It’s my office. Nothing.” Larry’s arms are crossed over his chest. All the little boy fear of his older brother is still there, inside of him, even though he’s now the same size as Jack – if not lighter and tougher. His head starts to ache, anticipating a head injury. His hands are shaking. “We don’t see you for years and then you come back and bother us.”
“Bother? I’m helping Susan.”
“Helping her? Feeding her drugs?”
“She seems to like it.” Jack laughs.
The flash of headlights again. Larry can’t make out who is in the car. The windows are caught in the late sun.
Suddenly the door opens at the front office and Mona comes out. She walks out on the steps and turns to put her key in the lock but instead stops and stretches tall. Stiff from sitting at her desk. Both Jack and Larry watch her. Larry watches the arch of her back, the flow of her hair, her arms high and long, stretched to the dying sun. She turns then and sees them standing there in the aisle. A look of fear crosses her face. She locks the office door quickly and walks away. To her car. A fast pace.
“Nice,” Jack says. “I could use some of that.”
“Fucking leave her alone,” Larry says. “Just get out of here, Jack.”
Jack looks closely at Larry. There is an anger in his eyes that is uncontrollable. Larry backs up. “You like her, don’t you?” Jack pokes Larry in the chest. Larry moves back even farther. “You fucking like her. Little Lawrence has a girlfriend.”
“Get out of here, Jack.” Larry tries to keep his voice steady. The lights flash again.
Jack turns and begins to walk away. Easy-like. Larry watches him go. His face is hot, his heart beating madly. How can one man, one brother, make him feel this way? Larry has been strong, courageous, top of his game for years. And then his brother comes back and takes over. Makes him weak again. A child. A scared little boy.
“Fuck.” Larry hits his hand hard on the roll-up door.
Later, he notices a dent on the door the size of his hand.
There is a strange noise coming from the storage unit two aisles over. The noise stops and starts. A howling or groaning or crying. Larry walks over, quietly, to see what’s up.
It is snowing lightly. In the snow he can see a set of footprints. The left footprint heavier by far than the right, sunk right into the snow. The right foot dragging slightly. Someone was limping or taking care of one foot more than the other. That shuffling, uneven walk he heard before.
No noise then. Nothing. The groaning has stopped suddenly. Whoever is in there knows he is standing outside.
Larry puts his ear to the door. Still nothing. He goes back to his office. Sits. Waits.
The next day he sees Mona standing on the steps of the office. She is smoking. He has never seen her smoke before. Didn’t her kids say smoking is bad? She looks furious and doesn’t even glance his way when he smiles and says hello.
Larry can’t help but stare. He stands there in front of his rolled-up door and looks her up and down, looks her over. It’s not only a sexual thing, but something else as well. It’s as if he wants to consume her, draw her into himself. The way she stands. The anger leaking out of her. He knows nothing about this Mona but also feels as if he’s known her his entire life.
Days later, Mona is knocking on his door. Larry rolls it up and stares at her. She stares back.
“Why do you keep staring at me?” she says. “You shouldn’t be around always staring at me. People will get the wrong idea. Every day I see you looking at me. It unnerves me. It makes me uncomfortable. Do you get it?” She pokes him on his chest. Her touch is electric. “Stop staring at me.” Then she turns on her booted heels and walks back towards the office. Larry watches her go.
People? What people? There is no one around but the guy behind the desk, and he notices nothing.
Larry thinks, finally, that he is in love. Even though she has the weird kids who have taken to pulling each other around in the snow on flattened cardboard boxes as if they are sleds. They pull each other, taking turns, until the cardboard becomes so damp it disintegrates. Then they shout and laugh and talk. They pull. Mona calls them into the office for lunch. Larry listens and occasionally watches. He watches Mona, who comes and goes. He takes note of her clothing, of the way she moves, of the changes in her hairstyles. She stares back at him. Sometimes she says hello. Sometimes she tells him to go away. Sometimes she flips her hair and ignores him. Sometimes she doesn’t say anything and acts as if he is invisible.
And then, finally, it is spring again and Larry’s money is almost gone. He hasn’t visited Susan in months. Jack hasn’t been back. No more cars in the woods flashing their headlights. No more sedans following him. The groaning, crying sounds aren’t as constant in the other aisle. Mona comes and goes.
It has been raining all night and is cool, but there is the smell of growth all around from the woods. Larry has spent the season trying to understand Mona and has almost given up, but not quite. She is cold and hot. Some days talking to him for minutes, other days walking away quickly. When he has a T-shirt on, she spends an inordinate amount of time staring at his tattoos as if they could tell her something about him. As if she is reading him. He knows nothing about her. She knows little about him. It’s a frustrating dance, and Larry spends nights at the bars with women he can understand. He buys them drinks, they take him home. He fucks them.
This Mona and her kids. Larry has never been so consumed.
The rain has stopped and Larry pulls open his rolling door and looks out into the aisle. And there she is. A spring dress,
a heavy sweater, her feet in boots. No stockings or tights. She comes down the office steps towards him. He is about to say something but Mona walks purposefully into his storage unit and turns and shuts the roll-up door behind her. Slams it down hard. The light is dim inside even with his stand-up lamp and white Christmas lights.
Larry opens his mouth. Mona glares at him. He closes his mouth. Watches her. She’s like a wild animal and he doesn’t want to frighten her. He is careful not to move.
It’s a seduction that is more angry than beautiful. She says, “Is this what you want? You are always looking at me. Is this what you want?” She throws her arms in the air. Her hair is wild and whips around when she moves. She is fierce and wild and furious. Mona comes at him like a murderer. She bites and pulls at his skin and scratches him with her long fingernails. Her body is lovely and brown and Larry doesn’t care if he is bleeding from his lip, doesn’t care that she has bitten him over and over. She says nothing. Not a sound comes out of her. Not a groan, a whimper, a cry. Larry works hard to keep his mouth covered with hers or just plain closed, to not give in to the sounds he wants to make. He wants to shout or scream.
When they are done, Mona laughs at the rug burns on their bodies. She sits up and smiles. A lovely smile. She shivers. It’s cold on the floor. She looks at the tattoos on his chest, asks him to turn over and looks at the ones on his back. Larry can’t figure her out. If he wants to touch her, she won’t let him, but she can run her hands all over his body. He doesn’t care. Or he cares too much. Larry isn’t sure about all these feelings he has, these feelings of closeness. Never before has he felt close to anyone. Except his mother. His whistling mother, fixing his sandwich and milk. His mother, who walked out and left him.
This is the first time. Mona says nothing and leaves.
Then it happens again. Days later.
And again.
And again.
Each time, she comes at him as if she wants to tear his heart out. As if she wants to gouge his eyes, as if she wants to eat him. Each time, he is sore and covered in scratches and bites and a heady scent of anger. Larry has no idea what makes her this way. He doesn’t ask. He says nothing. If he says something, he knows she won’t come again.
The Prisoner and the Chaplain Page 16