Chapter Twenty-Two #3
She shrugs. When I look over there, Juvie’s got his face against the table.
He starts choking back these strange, hiccupy sobs.
The stepmother reaches out to comfort him, then must remember the rule: no touching except for the beginning and ending hugs.
Her hand freezes in the space between them.
You’d think one of the COs would go over there, try to calm things down, but they stay put and stare.
From her perch, Butch calls, “Quiet over there. Being able to have visitors is a privilege!”
Shaking her head, Emily says, “I hate this place. How can you stand it?”
“I didn’t think I could at first.” Jolted back to that suicide-watch cell, I flinch.
“But you figure it out, you know? Learn the ropes, keep yourself busy. Calculate who to trust and who not to. I’ve been going to the library, doing a lot of reading.
I applied for a job there, but I’m still on a waiting list. Hey, can I ask you something?
” She nods. “I notice you’re not wearing your rings. Is that—”
“I left them in the car because I knew I was going to have to go through that metal detector. I forgot they have lockers where you can put all your stuff.”
“But what about when you’re not here? Do you wear them at school? Or when you go to the grocery store?”
“I don’t have time to go to the grocery store anymore, Corby. I order online and have our groceries delivered.”
“Yeah, but—”
“The answer is yes. I still wear them because we’re still married.”
She seems annoyed that I asked, but I’m in it now so I might as well go for broke. “Do you think we’re going to be able to weather this? Stay married?”
She stares down at her hands on the table and keeps me waiting so long that I withdraw the question. “Moving on, do you notice anything different about me?”
“Your beard,” she says.
“And? When I grew one before out in California, you liked it. Thought it looked sexy, remember?”
“Well, you kept it trimmed back then. Your hair’s longer now and it doesn’t look like you comb it much. You kind of look like the Unabomber.”
Ouch. But I cover my feelings with a laugh. “Not exactly the look I was going for, but hey.”
“I honestly don’t know if we can weather this,” she says.
“Is that why you’re seeing Dr. Patel? Trying to figure it out?”
“Be fair, Corby. When you were seeing her those times, I didn’t ask you what you two were talking about. What I discuss with her is private.”
“No, you’re right. But just tell me. Are you leaning one way or another? Because I know your mother’s probably weighing in on—”
She looks up at me. “Stop it. My mother doesn’t get a vote and—”
“How about me? Do I get one?”
She gets hives when she’s stressed and there’s a splotch blossoming on her neck now. “Stop pressuring me, Corby. I haven’t decided anything, all right? I’m just living day by day, doing what I have to do. I don’t have the luxury of focusing on the future, so I need you to stop this right now.”
“Got it. Sorry. So tell me—”
She interrupts me to ask whether I know why she was the last one to enter the visiting room.
I shake my head. “Because I kept triggering the stupid metal detector.” Her voice is shaky and the splotch on her neck has spread.
“He kept making me go through it again and again, and I kept telling him it was the machine, not me. But it was me. There was a Hershey’s Kiss in my pants pocket and the foil kept triggering it. So I felt like an idiot.”
“Oh, jeez. I’m so sorry, babe.”
“But that stupid guard didn’t have to treat me like I was trying to sneak something in to you. Plus, he was getting way too personal. ‘Don’t get your panties in a twist, Emily.’ ‘If your bra is underwired, maybe you should take it off and try again.’ Ugh.”
“He was saying shit like that? And calling you by your first name? That’s way out of line.” Now I’m shaky. My hands are fists. “Did you get his name? Check out his name tag?”
“No, but another guard said his name. Perkins, maybe? It began with a P .”
“Piccardy? Young guy in good shape? Blond, military-looking haircut?”
“That sounds like him.”
“He’s one of the newer ones, but he’s already proven that he’s a total dick.
Struts around here letting everyone know he lifts competitively.
I hear the muscleheads who hang out in the weight room can’t stand him.
Maybe I should write up a complaint. Let staff know the kind of stuff he was saying to you. ”
She shakes her head. “No, don’t. It’s not worth it.”
“Let him get away with disrespecting my wife? No way.”
“But it could come back at you. What if he retaliates?”
“So what? There’s a procedure for stuff like this. And if he tries to give me shit, I’ll have two things to grieve him about. I’m not powerless, Emily.”
“I’m not saying you are, but please just let it go.”
I answer her with a slight nod, which isn’t the same as promising her.
Maybe instead of writing him up, I’ll confront him directly.
I look around the room, fuming but trying not to let that jerk ruin our visit.
That’s when I notice what’s going on with Angel and his girlfriend over there.
With her back to the guards, she’s managed to undo the top buttons of her blouse.
She’s got one hand still on the table and with the other, she’s fondling her breast, fingering her nipple.
Angel’s got one hand on the table, too, and one hand under it.
Well, hey bro, if you want to risk it, then go for it. I just hope Emily doesn’t notice.
I look back at Em and take a chance on another touchy subject. “Oh, hey, before I forget, two Saturdays from now, they’re having Family Picture Day again? They bring in a photographer and I thought maybe you and—”
She shakes her head. “She’s not coming here, Corby. End of subject.”
“Yeah, I figured you’d say no. Just thought I’d ask because I want to see her so badly. The separation’s one of the roughest things about being here.”
“You know what? Instead of thinking about what you want, why don’t you think about how scary and confusing it would be for her .
” She’s gritting her teeth. “She’s three years old.
She doesn’t need to see the inside of a men’s prison.
And do you really want to memorialize your time in here with a father-daughter photograph—the two of you posed against these cheerful gray cinder-block walls, you wearing your prison scrubs?
Not to mention that if I brought her here, she’d be exposed to hepatitis and MRSA and whatever else is in the air at this germ factory? ”
“Emily, kids visit here all the time and I haven’t heard of any of them getting sick or traumatized. Look at that little dude over there. He’s not focused on this being prison. He’s just happy to see his gramps and play with the toys over there in the kids’ corner.”
“I wouldn’t want her touching anything in here, especially toys and books that every other kid’s been handling. Let’s change the subject.”
“Babe, can I just tell you what I keep worrying about? That if she doesn’t get to see me while I’m here, when I get out, she might not even remember me. That I’ll say something to her and she’ll hide behind your leg like I’m some stranger she needs to be afraid of.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Corby. Give me a little credit, will you?
We look at pictures of you on my iPad and my phone, mention you in her bedtime prayers.
And those drawings you’ve been sending her?
We put them in her ‘Daddy folder.’ Take them out and look at them sometimes.
And her favorite—the ones of her and her dolls having their tea party?
That one’s Scotch-taped to her bedroom wall. She insisted.”
“Well, lucky you, Emily. You can use Scotch tape. It’s contraband here. I had to swipe a couple of globs of Manny’s Fixodent so that I could stick my pictures of you and her to my wall. I don’t think you understand how much it hurts not to see her.”
She straps her arms around herself, tight as a straitjacket. “Oh, I think I can. I haven’t seen my little boy since a year ago last April.”
Her remark lands so hard that I jump up from my chair. It falls back on the floor, making a racket. “Hey, table four!” Goatee calls from up on his platform. “Pick it up and sit back down!”
“Yeah, no problem. Sorry.”
Then Juvie—Solomon—starts up again. “Shut up! Just leave and don’t come back! He wanted me, but you never did! I wish you were the one who died.” His screams are bouncing off the cinder-block walls.
The guards rush over there and post themselves on either side of him.
“Visit’s over, Clapp,” Goatee Guy shouts.
“Get up. You’re going back to your cell.
” When the kid refuses, they start pulling him off his chair.
He resists. Grabs hold of the table with one hand and tries taking a swipe at Butch with the other.
Then Piccardy appears out of nowhere, grabs him from behind, and squeezes him so hard that the kid cries out in pain.
As he’s dragged toward the door kicking and screaming, he yells, “I hate everyone at this place and when I get out of here, I’m going to get a gun and kill all of you and your dogs! ”
The kid’s mother is crying. Emily looks so stricken, she may never come back here. Butch reenters the room and announces that visiting time is over. “Door!”
Everyone’s company stands up: Mrs. Sikh, Angel’s girlfriend, Praise’s wife and the little guy, Juvie’s stepmom, Emily.
When she gives me a quick hug, I pull her closer, reluctant to let go of her.
When I do, she joins the others, walking like sheep toward the opening door.
Emily’s arm is around the stepmom. “See you next time, Grampy!” Cornell’s grandson calls to him.
He’s the only one who doesn’t seem upset.
After the room’s been cleared of visitors, Butch says, “All right, offenders. Back to your units!”
“But we had ten more minutes,” the Sikh says.
“You heard me,” she says. “Back to your units.”
But she forgot a step: the required post-visit strip search before we go back.
Solomon’s already left the building, but the rest of us wait our turn to participate in the DOC humiliation ritual.
At least this CO is one of the older ones who’s probably counting down the days to retirement.
They don’t hassle you the way some of the younger ones do.
They keep it perfunctory. You just do what you need to do and try to go someplace else until they’re done.
He points to the Sikh first. Tells him to take off his turban, too.
After he searches him and sends him on his way, he examines Cornell, then Angel.
I’m last. “You guys left early,” he says.
“Trouble in there?” As if he hasn’t most likely watched what went down on that closed-circuit TV mounted to the wall or seen them haul Solomon out of there.
Without answering him, I take off my shoes and socks.
Flare out my toes. Open my mouth wide to let him look down my throat.
Touch my tongue to the roof of my mouth so he can see under it.
Pull off my shirt. Drop trou. Cup my balls and lift them.
Turn around, spread my ass cheeks, cough when he tells me to.
“Okay,” he says. I put my clothes back on and he sends me on my way.
Back in our cell, I flop down face-first on my mattress. “Who’d you have visiting you?” Manny asks. I tell him my wife.
“Yeah? I know you’ve been wanting to see her again. Good visit?”
I don’t answer.