Chapter Thirty-Four
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
A week after the reception, I get a letter from Emily.
Hi, Corby—I hope you’re doing well. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for your reception.
I was planning to go, but at the last minute, I got called in for an emergency meeting at Maisie’s school.
She had gone to the girls’ bathroom and scribbled in crayon all over the walls.
She also took a boy’s Spider-Man action figure out of his cubby and tried to flush it down the toilet.
She denied she’d done these things at first, but the principal, Mrs. Sotzing, finally broke her down and got her to admit it.
For her consequence, her teacher, Ms. Demko, made an example of her with her classmates, then moved her desk to the back of the room by herself.
At the meeting, I said I thought there were better ways to make her accountable than by shaming and separating her from the others, especially since during the last meeting, she’d voiced concern about Maisie not socializing with her classmates. They barely listened to my objection.
If I’d been at that meeting, I would have made them listen.
The school social worker suggested Maisie may still be showing signs of grief about the significant losses in her life.
I’m not so sure. The tantrums have stopped.
She never talks in that weird language anymore or freaks out about having her poops go down the toilet.
I don’t think she has any memory of Niko at this point.
She understands that you’re “away” but that you’re coming back.
(We still have to figure out how that’s going to work.) I left that meeting with the names of two child psychologists and the distinct impression that my parenting was being judged.
I cried all the way to my mother’s house when I went to pick up Maisie.
When we got home, I sat her down and asked her why she had done those naughty things.
She said it was because she was sad, but she didn’t know what she was sad about.
To me, her actions seemed more angry than sad.
She can be so hard to read sometimes. I should probably call one of those psychologists, but when I took her to that last one, it didn’t seem to make any difference.
I’m not sure my insurance will cover it.
I think what upset me the most at that meeting was their arrogance.
I’ve been a teacher for twelve years and know a thing or two about child psychology myself.
But it’s not about you, Em. It’s about Maisie.
Congratulations on your mural! I wish I’d been there to see it in person.
I know your Creative Strategies job was more about the paycheck than about doing what you loved, but it sounds like you were able to go where you wanted to with this project.
Artistic freedom in prison? That’s pretty ironic.
The write-up in the Courant was great and, from the little I could see in the photo, the painting looks amazing.
It must feel good to get such a positive reaction.
You’ve probably already seen the article, but I thought you might want this extra copy.
Maisie and I visited your mom at the hospital.
Her surgery went well and they’ve already got her up and walking.
We brought her flowers and Maisie drew her a get-well card.
For some reason, it had these weird potato-shaped people with toothpick arms and legs that she’s been drawing lately.
Of course, Vicki fawned over it and said what a great artist she was, just like her daddy.
Love,
Emily
I had not seen that article but was relieved to read that the reporter didn’t go into my conviction or include any of the “gotcha” stuff from her interview.
Warden Rickerby must have loved the piece, too; it praises her for her progressive leadership and her encouragement of innovative rehabilitative activities for inmates.
Please. Mrs. Millman didn’t even get a mention, but that probably bothers me more than it does her.
She’s just happy that she may be getting more funding for books.
According to Mrs. M, the response to the mural from people coming into the library has been positive, and this includes staff as well as inmates.
“Ledbetter’s one of the decent ones over there in B Block,” Captain Graham told Mrs. Millman.
“But I didn’t know he could do something like this.
” A few of the guys on our tier got passes and went over there to see it.
Manny and Angel both got a kick out of seeing themselves floating down the river past this place.
Lobo was with them and Manny said he stared at the mural for so long, it was like he was hypnotized.
Despite all these pats on the back, I haven’t gotten away unscathed.
During the weeks I was working on the mural, Piccardy and Anselmo pretty much left me alone.
Out of sight, out of mind, I guess. I figured they’d maybe gotten their fill of harassing me and gone on to some other con who’d challenged their authority. But no.
I’m walking back from D Block after an AA meeting that Sunday morning. As I enter our building and start up the stairs, I hear footsteps behind me. I look back and there they are, the two of them, their voices echoing in the stairwell.
“Paints some stupid pictures on a wall, gets in the paper, and now he thinks his shit don’t stink.”
“Thinks he’s Rickerby’s fair-haired boy. Forgets that he’s here because he killed his kid.”
“Harry in Maintenance told me they got orders to paint over Baby Killer’s pretty picture as soon as he’s out of here.”
“Hey, you hear that, Ledbetter? Guess you’re not such a hero after all!”
Two more flights to go. I tell myself to hold on and not react to their goading.
Assaulting two COs is a luxury I can’t afford.
Instead, to drown them out, I start singing, loud as I can, that old R.E.M.
song I used to play in my bedroom with the volume jacked up.
“What’s the frequency, Kenneth? Is your Benzedrine, uh-huh… ”
It works. They get off on the tier below ours. When I reach our floor, I head to the control desk to check back in. I’m flustered by what just happened, something McGreavy evidently picks up on. “What’s the matter?” he asks. I shrug, tell him I’m okay, and start down the corridor.
It’s the five-on-the-floor break, so everyone’s out of their cells, chatting and laughing, lining up at the hot pot.
The bored ones are leaning over the railing to check out the comings and goings on the tier below.
There’s a lot of bitching about the latest stupid rule administration’s come up with: the buddy system.
Going to and coming back from chow, we now have to march in line with a partner, all of us keeping the same pace.
No gaps, no pileups, no talking to anyone besides our partner.
Prison’s supposed to get us ready for life on the outside, so I guess when we’re released, we’ll be all set for kindergarten.
“Break’s over!” Goolsby bellows, herding us back to our cells.
“Yo, Corby,” Angel calls. “Look who couldn’t stay away from us.” Following his pointing finger, I see that Boudreaux’s back.
Manny, of course, has the scoop on the Ragin’ Cajun’s return.
Before Parole would let him leave the state and head home to Louisiana, Boudreaux got mixed up in a carjacking that won him a return ticket here.
“Claims it was a setup and that he’s innocent,” Manny tells me. We say it in unison: “Uh-huh.”
That evening, I can’t get Piccardy and Anselmo out of my head.
… Thinks his shit don’t stink.… Thinks he’s Rickerby’s fair-haired boy.
… They’ve got orders to paint over Baby Killer’s pretty picture.
I doubt that last is true, but it landed like a kick in the balls.
To distract myself from hearing their voices, I grab a pen and a couple of sheets of notebook paper and write back to Emily.
Hi, Em—
Thanks for your letter and the congrats.
Being able to design and paint the mural was the best thing that’s happened to me here.
I wasn’t all that comfortable with the attention I got at the reception, but I survived and was grateful, most of all to Fagie Millman, the Yates librarian.
She’s been my champion. I was hoping I’d see you, introduce you two, but I understand.
Thanks for sending the clipping. I hadn’t seen it and was sweating out what that reporter was going to write, but she went easy on me. Jesus, what’s going on with Maisie?
I’ve never really accepted Emily’s reason for keeping her away from here. What’s more traumatic: seeing me in prison or not seeing me at all?
That school meeting sounded awful. When I get out of here, we can go to meetings like that together unless you’d rather I don’t go. If you think they were judging your parenting, I’d hate to imagine what they’d think about mine.
I talked to my mom earlier today and she says she’s making good progress since her surgery.
Wants to get back to work ASAP so she can see her “breakfast regulars.” I doubt that gang of retirees she waits on are big tippers, but I’m pretty sure she loves the job more for the social interaction than anything else.
Thanks, by the way, for visiting her at the hospital and for bringing Maisie.
She told me she really appreciated it and that seeing Maisie and you was the bright spot of her day.
Oh, by the way, at the reception? Some art agent who was there told me he was impressed by the mural and that he might have some work for me after I’m out of here. Probably won’t amount to anything, but he gave me his card. Okay, it’s lights-out in a couple of minutes, so I’ll end here.
I love you, Emily