“Lemony fucking fresh.”
The problem was that Jonah kept using his own product, and Carl had an eighteen-year-old daughter that looked twenty-five. She wore miniskirts and dark eye makeup and “could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch,” Jonah said. She wound up pregnant, got it aborted, and Carl wound up with a gun in his hand, waving it in Jonah’s face. He took a gunshot to the shoulder, but he was able to get out of there before he got hit anywhere else.
“Praise the fucking Lord.”
But he lost it all. The money was gone and the connections gone and he was told if he ever sold another crystal in his life he’d be dead, and so he got out of the game. Ever since then he’d been working odd jobs: house painting and paper routes and hardware stores. Anything he could find, really, but he wasn’t ever able to keep a job for too long. Never could break his habit. Never could stop using. Went to meetings and rehab and got himself a sponsor, but nothing worked. He wound up blowing all his money and living anywhere he could, crashing on old friends’ couches or at the Y when beds were open or at the shelter. And that was about it for him. Nothing much else to tell.
“But I want you to know I forgive you,” he said. “I do. It took me a long time, but you should know. You’re forgiven.”
I had to admit I was thankful for that. It was the first time anyone had ever said that to me. I was forgiven. Someone had forgiven me.
JONAH ENDED UP STAYING ON my couch. He wouldn’t leave, actually. I’d expected him to. Eventually, anyway, I thought he would say farewell, walk out the door, make his way through the sea of reporters, and return to Bartlesville and our father, but he didn’t. That first night, he slept on the couch, and the next day we all watched television together, hunched in shoulder to shoulder on my small sofa, sipping on ramen broth and binging on Hostess cakes. Another night passed and then another, and I found myself starting to worry about him, the fact he hadn’t any clothes to change into, the fact he didn’t have a toothbrush or clean underwear or money of his own, and so I went shopping. For the first time since I’d been outed, I left the house, with Atchley by my side, and I bought him shaving cream and Hanes T-shirts and a couple button-downs just in case we could line him up a job interview. It felt good to be doing this, to be thinking of someone else, to be needed. To have a purpose once again. It saved me, I think, in a way.
Jonah, of course, was thankful for all Atchley and I did for him. He showed his appreciation by cleaning the house. He vacuumed and washed dishes and even sprayed the windows. He even tried to shoo away the paparazzi. He’d take Atchley’s dry cleaning and walk the three blocks to and from American Cleaners. He made sure our mail was laid out and organized our spice rack and changed lightbulbs, and the entire time we never discussed the fact he’d moved in with me. I didn’t think we needed to. Everything seemed to be working out well, but Atchley, on the other hand, didn’t think so.
“He’s becoming dependent,” she said. “He’s running away from his problems. And so are you. It’s like you two are building this parasitic bubble of denial.”
“He just needs a little help. Everyone needs help every once in a while.”
“He needs more help than you can give him. He’s still using. He needs rehab. Something.”
“He just needs some time, okay? Give him a break.”
“And you?” she said. “What do you get out of this?”
We were out of the house on a rare date night, hitting up fall’s last street festival at H & 8th before winter came with its winds and biting cold. We perused vendor tents hocking impromptu short poems and leather-bound, homemade journals, and ate tacos from a food truck. The cameras had started to lighten up a bit as Mom’s story died down—only a few tabloids called the apartment anymore, wanting quotes about the rumors of a new cult I’d started, how I’d brainwashed the townspeople to turn into cannibal child killers—and so we were alone for the first time in weeks. I knew it was temporary, though. Mom’s execution was set to happen in about a month, and I was sure the cameras would return along with the bright lights and nosy reporters, and so I tried to take advantage. I was worried Atchley would soon grow weary of the circus, deem me not worth the trouble, and leave the first chance she got.
“He’s my brother. And he’s suffered. Because of me, he’s suffered. I owe him.”
“So, you’re alleviating some guilt? Is that it? You were a victim, too, Caleb.”
I didn’t say anything.
“You understand that, right? You’re a victim, too.”
Everyone was quick to point this out. While in juvenile detention, the counselors had repeatedly broached the subject of my victimhood, how I’d been manipulated and coerced by my mother’s eccentric faith. That’s what they called it—eccentric, as if it were some nervous tic or outlandish notion, and I tried to explain to them millions of people believe in God, in the word of the Bible, in Revelation: that one day the dead will rise and the streets will flow with blood and that Jesus will return to the earth and lead the chosen into the kingdom of heaven. This wasn’t the eccentricity of one madwoman—the majority of the nation believes in these things. It just so happened my mother, and I, too, believed it was coming soon, and that we were to play a central role in the end of times. Perhaps we’d been wrong about that, but we weren’t victims, and we weren’t eccentric; it was just a matter of faith. My mother did some terrible things, and I should’ve done more to stop her once things were getting out of control, but I wasn’t a victim. I was complicit. I was complicit in something I’d never be able to forgive myself for.
“And you still believe in God?” the counselors would ask me.
“Yes,” I’d said every time. “Don’t you?”
I tried to tell Atchley this, but she grabbed me by the wrists and tried to get me to face her. I obliged, and the other attendees streamed by us, a little annoyed we were blocking traffic, casting sideways glances as they took bites from their oversized corndogs.
“You were a child, Caleb. A child. Don’t you see you can’t be responsible for what your mother did? You didn’t murder all those people. You couldn’t be culpable. It’s impossible. You have to stop blaming yourself.”
“Let’s just get a funnel cake and order a poem about a unicorn wearing a diaper,” I said.
“I’m being serious here,” she said.
“I am, too. My blood sugar dropped, and I think I could frame the poem and put it in front of the shitter. Give me some perspective while bored on the toilet.”
Atchley screamed. It wasn’t a high-pitched, shrilly scream either, but something full of anger and frustration and gut-wrenching exasperation. That was when she punched me. Hard. Balled up fist, arm flexed, thrown as hard as she could. It landed on my pec just above my heart, and I could feel it skip a beat. From the pain, from the surprise, but she didn’t stop. She just kept throwing them. She swung and closed her eyes and then opened them again and kept on swinging, and I didn’t have anywhere to flee. I just covered my face. I hunched over and tried to deflect the blows, but they kept on coming, and nobody was coming to help.
“Hey!” I said. “Hey! Stop! You’re hurting me.”
“You fucking, fuck, fuckety, fucking fucker.”
“Jesus Christ, Atchley. You’re hurting me here.”
“I am so sick and fucking tired of you feeling sorry for yourself.”
“I’m not feeling sorry for myself.”
The blows were even harder now. They landed on my shoulders, my neck, the back of my head. I could hear people laughing now. I could feel their pointing, their leering, their wondering, “Is that—Is that Caleb Gunter?”
“Stop, Atchley. Please. You’re making a scene.”
“Good!” she said. “That’s what I’m trying to do! Hey! Hey, everyone! Here’s Caleb Gunter! The child prophet! The messiah! Get your cameras. Get your laughs. He’s right here!”
The crowd continued on past. They gawked, but only fleetingly, their sneers temporary as they made their way to w
atch a blind man strum his guitar or to see a flash mob dance with hula hoops, but soon, as Atchley continued to swing, as she continued to berate me, a small crowd formed, egged Atchley on, screamed for her to swing harder, faster, to go for the kill shot.
“Here he is!” Atchley screamed. “The one and only, self-proclaimed Second Coming of Christ! In the flesh, folks, for your viewing fucking pleasure.”
The crowd laughed and pointed and jeered. “Oh my God,” they said. “It is him. Holy shit. Get your camera. Take a picture.”
“Atchley, please. What are you doing?”
“Come and take a look! The messiah! Hide your children! Hide your wives! He’s damning us all to hell!”
“Atchley, this isn’t funny! What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to help!” she screamed.
She punched again and again, this time landing right on my chin. I bit my lip, and I could taste blood. It filled my mouth quickly, and some dribbled down my chin and onto my shirt. It tasted of copper. It tasted good.
“Fine!” I yelled. I threw my hands up and grabbed her wrists as she continued to swing, but I was stronger than her and could keep her from throwing any more punches. “I am Caleb Gunter. I am. I thought I was the Second Coming of Jesus Christ. I tried to help people. I failed. A lot of people got hurt. People died. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry that happened. I am. But there isn’t anything I can do about it now. Happy?”
“Yes,” she said. “I am.”
CHAPTER 6
THE PRISON WAS WEST OF THE CITY IN A SMALL Oklahoma town. It only had a population of about 1,500 people, and most of them worked for the Department of Corrections. The prison itself towered over the town, a six-story cement-gray monstrosity. Guard towers lined the perimeter, the fence protected with barbed wire, dogs, and armed personnel. It was a desolate place and lonely, bland and menacing all at once. To get into the prison, Atchley, Jonah, and I had to drive through this chain-link tunnel, several fences closing behind us as we made our way to the main compound. It was a depressing place, and almost instantaneously it was like I was transported back to my thirteen-year-old self, first checking in to juvenile detention. There was the same fear, the same apprehension, the same obstinate yearning, begging to go back, to please, let me go back in time—I promise, I would do things differently.
“You sure you’re up to this?” Atchley asked as we found a parking spot. “We can come back,” she said. “There’s still time. If you want to come back later.”
The entrance was a singular, black steel door. There were no windows to speak of; only a few spotted the entire prison block, barred and tinted so we couldn’t see through them. The parking lot was gravel, and the rocks jabbed me through the soles of my shoes.
“No,” I said. “I’m here. I have to do this.”
“I can’t,” Jonah said. “I’m sorry, Caleb. I thought I could, but I just can’t.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sorry.”
“No,” I said. “Don’t be. I understand.”
Atchley and I left him in the car. Inside was a little entrance, wide enough for only one person, so Atchley had to stand on the threshold, door open. There was a window right when we walked in, and behind it sat a tired-looking lady, chewing gum and pointing to a sign-in sheet. At the top of the paper, it said, “Two forms of ID required. Pockets emptied. No metal beyond this point.”
Underneath the window, the woman pushed a bin toward us. “Put your stuff in here,” she said. “No belts, no shoes, no liquids. Act like you’re at an airport.”
We stripped. We took off our shoes, our watches, our belts, our bracelets and rings. We emptied our pockets. Handed over our phones and loose change and notes to pick up milk and eggs and bread at the store on our way home. I knew it was just protocol, that these precautions were in place for everyone’s protection—ours, the inmates’, and the security guards’—but it was disheartening in a way. I almost felt accused of something. Like I was in fact checking in for my own prison sentence rather than visiting my mother, sitting on death row.
I’d never been to a state prison before, let alone death row, so I was intrigued. I wanted to see the actual block where the inmates were kept. I pictured this long, concrete hallway, fortified by reinforced stone walls. It would be gray and bleak and dark. It would smell damp and be cold and lonely. The cells would be lined with steel bars and house a single twin bed, a toilet without a seat, and a sink that dispelled water in one temperature: tepid. The prisoners would spend their days making up games, variations of I Spy and the Name Game, and they would taunt each other, knowing full well they would never, ever get within arm’s reach of one another. I knew this to be some gothic fantasy, however, ill-conceived notions wrought from reading too much Edgar Allen Poe and Oral Roberts. More than likely, the block would be bright, illuminated by a humming fluorescence. The cells would be painted white cinderblock, the doors floor-to-ceiling, painted-white steel. The bed would be new, newish anyway, and covered with thin white sheets. The pillow small. The sink chrome. The walls would be soundproof to keep the inmates from carrying on conversations about their appeals or about the letter their sisters did or did not write. It would be a lonely place and cold, but different from how I pictured it.
I didn’t get to see the block, though. A young guard, plump and tall like a former athlete, ushered Atchley and I down a hallway and buzzed us through several doors. After the second or third, he turned to us and pulled up his belt.
“Only one of you from here on out,” he said. “The other will have to stay here.” He pointed toward a waiting room of sorts. It had a TV and magazines and a decades-old coffee table purchased sometime in the last century.
Atchley clutched my hand before I could go further. “You’re very brave for doing this. You know that, don’t you?”
I nodded, unconvinced.
“You are,” she said. “And don’t forget it.”
The guard buzzed me through one last door, into another wing. There were various rooms on either side of the hallway, all of them small, furnished with two chairs and a single table. On the table and on the floor directly below it were metal hooks, bolted down. There were no windows. There were no vents. Only a camera mounted to the wall, a red light illuminated on the very top.
“We have these rooms for when lawyers visit. Family. Interviews. What have you.” He pointed to the last room on the left and bid me sit. “When the inmate comes in,” he said, “you are not to stand. You are not to touch the inmate. You are not to hand to or accept anything from the inmate. Do not lean forward. Do not tap the table. Keep your hands visible at all times. English must be spoken at all times. Do you understand me?”
I nodded.
“I need verbal confirmation.”
“Yes. I understand.”
“Arms out. Feet shoulder width.”
The guard patted me down. Once satisfied I was clean, he told me to sit in the chair farthest from the door, and he took position on the far wall to my left, hands behind his back, jaw perched up as if standing at attention. While waiting, I tried to calm down, to regulate my breathing. To control my body temperature. To stop from sweating. Mind over matter. But I couldn’t. It was like I couldn’t catch my breath. I couldn’t breathe. I tried short, sporadic bursts. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. But I couldn’t. It was like my throat had closed, and I started to panic.
“Relax,” the guard said. “Just relax. Everything will be okay.”
And, for some reason I still can’t articulate, it worked. I relaxed. I caught my breath and the world returned to its normal color. That was when Mom came in, chaperoned by two armed guards. Her wrists and ankles were shackled, and she shuffled in a way that reminded me of a clumsy adult in a three-legged race. She looked much thinner than I remembered, her cheeks sunken and hollowed out, cheekbones like cue balls. Her expression was one of constant, repressed fear—mouth straight, neck muscles strained, eyes wide and red from lack of blinking. Later I would read
about the effects of solitary confinement on the human psyche, how it caused in the victims a sort of chronic paranoid schizophrenia, hallucinations, violent and unpredictable impulses. At the time, though, I just thought she’d lost her mind. I suppose, in a way, I was right.
When she sat down, one of the guards locked her shackles to the table hook and to the floor. Mom didn’t fight it. She just looked about the room. Corner to wall to door to wall. Everywhere but me.
“Hi, Mom,” I said, trying to get her to make eye contact. “It’s me. It’s Caleb.”
She peered at me like an Alzheimer’s victim trying desperately to recognize a person whom she knew she should, but couldn’t, place. Then it was like something clicked. Her gaze narrowed, her expression tightened. She was angry at me, like she was ready to come across the table if she wasn’t bolted to it.
“Listen,” she said. “I’ve already told you. A thousand times I’ve told you.”
“What’d you tell me, Mom?” I asked, confused and a little scared—it was like I was a child again, being reprimanded for not knowing verse and chapter of a bible quote.
She groaned, exasperated. “Why do you have to be so stupid? Seriously. I want to know. Why are you just so damn dumb? Does it take practice or were you born this way?”
Into Captivity They Will Go Page 25