Chapter Thirty-Three #3
“Nope. Or Vachel Lindsay either. We had to perform this poem of his called ‘The Potatoes’ Dance’ at an assembly.
I had to do a solo: ‘There was just one sweet potato / He was golden brown and slim / The ladies loved his dancing / They danced all night with him.’ A couple of us tried to convince her that rap was poetry so maybe we could recite something by LL Cool J or Coolio, but she wasn’t buying it. ”
She laughs. Says the poem she wants to share is by her favorite poet, W.
H. Auden, and that it references the Bruegel painting that guided me as I created the mural.
“I promise you don’t have to memorize it, but Auden might be more to your liking.
If not, just toss it. Okay then. Get some rest. Don’t be a stranger.
” She reaches over for another hug and I hug her back.
The lavender scent is gone. I wonder why Emily was a no-show.
Would she have been mad that I painted her and the kids in the mural?
Would she have resented having to witness all that praise being heaped on the husband who had taken the life of her child?
Just outside the library entrance, a thin, elderly man who was at the program says he’s been waiting to speak to me.
He’s well-dressed and soft-spoken—a retired-professor type, except for the skinny John Waters mustache above his top lip.
“I won’t hold you up,” he says. “I just wanted to tell you I think your mural is exceptional. May I ask how much longer you have on your sentence?” When I tell him, he says, “That’s splendid.
Not much more time at all.” For him, maybe.
He tells me he’s an art agent in New York but has been in Stonington Village for the past few days, doing some appraisals for an antiques dealer.
“She was invited to your celebration but couldn’t go, so she had me put on the list in her place.
I’m so glad she did. I wonder if you realize how talented you are. ”
I shrug. “For a prisoner maybe.”
“No, no. That’s irrelevant. Look, here’s my card.
My client list includes several muralists.
If you want to get in touch with me after your release, I may be able to get you some work.
If it’s corporate, we could negotiate a nice price—something to start you off on the right track once you’re out of here.
” I stuff the card in my pocket, thank him, and tell him I’m expected back at my building.
“Of course,” he says. When we exit the building, he goes one way, I go the other.
He seems harmless enough, but you never know.
He represents muralists and he might be able to get me work?
Seems a little too perfect to be real, so I’m not getting my hopes up.
At the entrance to our block, I’m stopped by one of the newer COs.
“What you got there?” he asks, pointing to the bag of cookies.
I explain about the library, the reception, the fact that they’re leftovers.
He makes me hand them over. “You want cookies, order them from commissary like everyone else. Where’s your ID at?
” I take it out and hand it to him, explaining that the deputy warden told me to take it off for the program I was going to.
“Oh yeah? What program was that?” I explain it to him again, adding that I was kind of like the guest of honor at this library thing.
He smirks the way a lot of the guards do when they think they’ve caught you in a lie.
He writes down my name and inmate number and says, “Okay, Ledbetter. Put your ID back on. To be continued if I find out you’re bullshitting me. ”
Climbing the stairs to our tier, I remind myself that if I was “the man of the hour” over in the library, my hour’s up.
Back in our cell, when Manny asks how it went, I give him a thumbs-up. “See? I told you you’d enjoy it,” he says.
He’s blasting his music and I ask him to turn it down. The day’s taken its toll and my headache’s getting worse.
When it’s quieter, I lie down on my mattress and turn onto my side.
Closing my eyes, I try for a nap, but I’m both exhausted and overstimulated.
In my mind’s eye, I see all the things in the mural I’d like to fix.
See that standing ovation. Hear that reporter: Is that your son?
Is he your Icarus? I hope to God that whatever she writes isn’t going to dredge everything up again.
I can just imagine the Facebook outrage.
This is how they’re “punishing” a guy who killed his own child? …
When I roll over onto my stomach, I hear the crinkle of paper.
Pull out that poem Mrs. M gave me and, with it, that guy’s business card.
I pick it up and read that first. John-Michael Chesley, Art Agent International , New York, San Francisco, London.
Specializing in the commissioning of new works of public art.
Well, okay, I guess he’s legit. Maybe there is a job in this for me down the line.
And even if not, it feels good to be validated by someone who knows art.
That poem she gave me is titled “Musée des Beaux Arts,” whatever that means.
About suffering they were never wrong ,
The Old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position: how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window
What’s the deal, Mrs. M? Why did you think I might like this or even know what the hell it means? And what’s it got to do with the Icarus painting? I’ll read it again tomorrow, but for now I’m just going to try to sleep my way past this headache.
As I start to doze, I invent reasons why Emily didn’t come today.
Maybe she’s having car trouble. Maybe Maisie’s sick.
Maybe she just didn’t care enough to come.
And if that last one’s true, what’s going to happen when I get out?
Okay, come on, Corby. Deep breaths. The present, not the past or the future. Go to sleep.