Chapter Thirty
CHAPTER THIRTY
I’ve waited three weeks for a response to my grievance but have gotten zilch, so on Saturday I get a pass and head over to the library.
I have to get an address for the SPCA. When I threatened to notify them, I wasn’t really going to do it, but by not responding to my complaint, they’re calling my bluff.
I figure I’d better follow through. Mrs. Millman’s not there, so I have Javi look up the address on the computer in her office.
I write the agency a three-page letter, stamp it, and drop it in the slot for outgoing mail. Midmorning the following day, Manny’s at work and I’m giving the cell a cleaning. A new CO who looks like he’s about eighteen unlocks our door and comes in. “Room search,” he says.
Nothing of Manny’s is touched, but my stuff—mattress, bedsheets, pillow, books, art supplies, toiletries—is thrown in a pile in the middle of the floor. “You looking for anything in particular, Officer?” I ask.
He says he’s just following orders. Then he grabs my plastic bottle of shampoo and squeezes its contents all over my stuff. “Orders from who?” I ask. When he doesn’t answer, I tell him that’s okay—I know it was Piccardy.
“Don’t know anything about it,” he says. “Oh, yeah, and I’m supposed to say, ‘Gobble, gobble, gobble.’ Okay, you’re clear. Sorry about the mess.”
In the middle of the next night, I wake up to someone tapping my shoulder.
Startled, I jump up in bed, blinded by a flashlight beam being held a few inches from my face.
When the beam is turned around, it lights up the contours of Piccardy’s face.
“Hey there,” he whispers. “Just thought I’d bed-check you to make sure you’re okay.
” I feel his breath on my face but say nothing.
Do nothing. After he leaves, I squint over at Manny’s digital clock.
Two forty-seven. I’m awake for the rest of the night.
Over the next few days, I remain clenched and vigilant.
Anselmo and Piccardy are both working third shift, which isn’t helping my sleep any.
Someone’s slipped me a folded note through our tray trap; when I open it, it says, “You’re going to be sorry.
” Each time I go to the chow hall, I hear some random gobble-gobbling.
I don’t know who’s doing it and I’m not giving anyone the satisfaction of looking around to see who it is, but I’m pretty sure it’s coming from one or more of us inmates.
Whoever they are, they must be doing Piccardy and Anselmo a favor to see what they get in return.
Manny and I haven’t been saying much to each other, but every time someone gobble-gobbles, he looks at me.
He was right about me getting pushback, but I don’t want to admit that the harassment is messing with my head.
Back on the tier, I try calling Emily, hoping to get a sympathetic ear. I’m grateful there’s no one else using the phones. Usually there’s a line at all three of them, so it’s kind of a miracle.
This call originates from a Connecticut Correctional facility. If you wish to accept a collect call from… “Corby.”
I hold my breath and wait for her to hit the “accept” number.
She doesn’t. Either she’s out or she’s standing there, staring at nothing.
She hasn’t accepted my calls in a couple of weeks now or visited me in almost two months.
I recall that conversation we had about her work in therapy—how she was being encouraged to respect her boundaries and take care of her own needs ahead of others’.
Meaning my needs, no doubt. But what does taking care of her own needs entail?
Taking a spa day? Getting a manicure? Spending more time with her new “friend,” Mr. Wonderful?
Too bad her needs don’t include driving down here to see her husband.
I hang up and dial the number of my second line of defense: Mom.
Less than a minute into our conversation, she says, “You sound upset, honey. Are you okay?” She always knows.
“Yeah, just feeling a little down.” Why bother going into it about the intimidation campaign when she can’t do anything about it except get upset?
“Well, I know something that will cheer you up. Maisie, honey, you know who’s on the phone? Your daddy! Come say hello to him.” Emily almost never asks Mom to babysit. Where did she go that she didn’t ask her mother? “Maisie?”
There’s an awkward silence, then Mom’s voice again. “Sorry, Corby. She’s very focused right now on her Play-Doh project. I showed her how to roll out snakes and—”
“That’s okay, Mom. Don’t pressure her. How’s she doing?”
“Oh, she’s fine, Corby. And smart as a whip! Knows all her colors and letters and the entire alphabet. And she’s artistic, too, just like you. Even has some of your gestures when you were her age.”
Unable to speak because of the lump in my throat, I say nothing.
“Emily says she’s going to hold her back another year before she enrolls her in kindergarten. I think she’s more than ready. By next year, she’ll probably be correcting the teacher! Of course, I don’t say anything. It’s Emily’s decision, not mine.”
“Not mine either, apparently,” I say. “But then again, why should I have input when I haven’t seen her since I got here?”
Mom tries one of her cheer-me-up comments. “Everyone thinks Maisie resembles Emily. And sure, she’s got her coloring and her dark eyes. But when I look at that daughter of yours, Corby, I can see a lot of you at this age.”
“Where did she go?”
“What?”
“Emily. Where did she go that she didn’t ask Betsy to babysit?”
“I’m not sure, honey. Maybe Christmas shopping? I don’t get to see Maisie that much, so I wasn’t about to rock the boat by asking a lot of questions.”
“Not even about where she was going? What if something happened and you needed to get ahold of her?”
“She said she’d leave her cell phone on and I could call or text her.”
I scoff. “Like you know how to text, right?”
“Honey, I’ve been texting for quite a while now.” As in: you may be stuck in neutral, Corby, but none of the rest of us are.
“Did she say if, wherever the hell she was going, it was with someone else?”
“No. Why?”
“Because I’m starting to think there’s another guy in the picture—that she may be getting ready to unload her loser husband for a new model.”
“Come on, honey. It doesn’t do you any good to think like that. It’s like we say in NA: you can look back at the past, just don’t keep staring at it.”
“I know you mean well, Mom, but the last thing I need right now is one of your twelve-step slogans.”
From the time I was a kid, my mother smoked weed—a consequence of having to put up with my father, I figured.
By the time he finally left, she’d become a confirmed pothead.
She’d tried to give it up a couple of times, but she only started going to NA after they sentenced me.
Told me that the first time she visited me here.
She said she needed to face her grief about Niko and the terrible repercussions for me instead of escaping from them by getting high.
“I keep thinking that maybe, if I hadn’t been so casual about smoking marijuana when you were growing up, what happened to Niko might not have—”
I stopped her right there. “Mom, I have to manage my own guilt about Niko every single day, sometimes hour by hour. Plus, my guilt about the pain and suffering I’ve caused Emily, you and Dad, her family.
But I’m not taking on your guilt, too. Niko’s death is about what I did that day.
It has nothing to do with the fact that you used to smoke weed. Okay?”
“Yes, okay. I’m sorry, Corby. The last thing I want to do is upset you. It’s just that the program has helped me so much, I can’t help but share the wisdom it’s—”
“Mom!”
“All right, I get it. You called me for a little TLC and I’m making you feel worse.
And no, I doubt Emily is seeing someone else.
Her mother told me she’s worried that Emily’s been isolating herself again and dropping weight.
Betsy says it’s a pattern—that she gets this way around the holidays and closer to the anniversary of Niko’s…
Well, you know. I told her that’s a rough anniversary for you, too.
For all of us. I’m just thankful Maisie doesn’t seem to remember anything about that day. ”
“Unless it’s a buried memory that will surface later. Give her another reason to hate me besides disappearing from her life.”
You have one minute remaining.
“Okay, Mom. Sorry I’m in a bad mood. Kiss Maisie for me and tell her Daddy loves her.”
“Why don’t you tell her yourself?”
“Better not. I’m sure Emily would want to prepare her for—”
“Maisie, sweetheart! Stop what you’re doing and come say goodbye!… Right now, young lady.… Maisie! ”
“It’s okay, Mom. Don’t force her.”
“No, wait! Here she comes. Now you speak into the phone and tell your daddy hello.”
I wait. Hear their whispered consultation. Then, my daughter’s on the line! “You know what? Gammy Vicki and I are making snakes. And later on, we’re gonna make pudding.” Hearing her small, shy voice brings tears to my eyes.
“You are? Wow, that sounds like fun. What kind of pudding?”
“Chawkit.”
“Oh man, that’s my favorite. Hey, do those snakes you’re making bite?” She giggles at the thought of it. “Do you remember who I am?”
The silence on the other end is agonizing. Is she confused? Afraid? Have her memories of me faded away?
“I’m Daddy. Do you remember when I used to give you piggyback rides and push you on the swings at the park?
And read you stories at night-night?” My heart is pumping hard.
My hand clutching the receiver goes sweaty.
“ Good Night, Moon and Pat the Bunny and… and… I haven’t seen you in a long, long time, but pretty soon—”
We get cut off at that point: conversation terminated by Securus Technologies.
I slam the phone down. Kick a plastic chair and send it clattering. “Hey!” CO Wierzbicki shouts from halfway down the corridor. “Pick up that chair and get back to your cell!”
“You got it, Officer,” I call back. “Sorry.” I try not to let him see I’m in tears.
Yeah, Emily, we lost him because of me, but I’m losing her, too.
It’s not right for you to withhold her from me because of…
because… So fuck you, Emily, and fuck your new boyfriend, too, if that’s what he is.
Self-care? Is this how you’re taking care of yourself, Em?
Not visiting me? Not picking up the phone and accepting my call?
We both lost him, not just you. And now I’m losing her, too, because you never let her see me.
What’s that about, huh? Payback for the pain I’ve put you through?
The humiliation I’ve caused you and your mother because you married the guy who got addicted, killed his son, and went to prison?
I’m awake for a good part of that night, my emotions swinging back and forth between resentment of Emily and sympathy for what I’ve put her through.
Why shouldn’t she start seeing someone while I’m stuck in here?
File for divorce and move on? But if she and this Evan dude start playing house and Maisie grows up thinking of him as Daddy, I won’t be able to take it.
Not after I will have been in here for three years, unable to see her.
Hold her. Play with her and put her to bed at night.
I get a couple of hours’ sleep before waking up with an acid stomach and a sour attitude. I consider skipping morning chow because I’m in no mood to put up with anyone’s bullshit. Then again, if they’re serving something bland, maybe it’ll calm down my gut.
Okay, it’s reconstituted scrambled eggs, two slices of white bread, and dishwater coffee.
Could be worse. On the walkway heading back to B Block, I see Warden Rickerby coming toward me accompanied by a trio of suits—politicians, probably, getting the PR tour, which explains why they were scrubbing down the block after hours yesterday.
This is about the only time you see Rickerby on the grounds: when she’s making the place seem like it’s run better than it is.
The expectation when she’s in the company of visiting VIPs is that you give them a polite nod and keep moving.
But I decide to risk being seen, being heard.
“Warden? Sorry to interrupt, but can I speak with you about something?”
The entourage stops. “Not now,” she says. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” The metal button pinned to her coat says, Ho, ho, ho!
“Please. It’s urgent.”
“Excuse me for a moment, gentlemen,” Rickerby says.
“All right. What is it?” Her back is to her guests, so they can’t see how pissed she looks.
I tell her about having filed a grievance against two of her officers because of an incident I observed and that I’ve gotten no response.
She glances down at my ID. “Look, Ledbetter,” she says.
“There’s a procedure to follow and a chain of command.
You can’t just jump the line because you feel your complaint is more important than everyone else’s. ”
“Warden, I don’t think that, but I wanted you to know that two of your COs have been bullying some of us. And that one of them pepper-sprayed a—”
“Stop right there, Inmate Ledbetter. I’m not having you litigate whatever problem you’re having with my officers. Let the grievance process take its course and consider it an opportunity for you to practice patience. And in the future, don’t interrupt me when you can see I’m busy with guests.”
“Yes, ma’am. I apologize.” And screw you, Your Highness. Maybe if you got off your throne and looked around, you’d see what’s going on around here.
Two days later, my complaint comes back to me in inmate mail.
Stamped across it diagonally in red, it says “Dismissed.” The following day, my letter to the SPCA is slipped through the tray trap of our cell door.
It’s been opened but there’s no postmark.
Those fuckers! It never even left the compound.
I pace, kick stuff, stop to look at the calendar. Tomorrow’s the twenty-fifth. Merry fucking Christmas!