Jar of Hearts

by Jennifer Hillier

  “Keep going. I’m getting close.”

  Bukowski’s head goes back down and Geo makes a swipe for her pants, but can’t quite reach them. She makes a few grunting noises and moves her hips a little, timing it to his rhythm. They only ever do oral because Bukowski, only twenty-five years old and one of the newer COs at Hazelwood, is terrified of getting her pregnant. There’s no access to birth control here, which makes sense, since the inmates aren’t allowed to have sex, and especially not with the guards. Bukowski is risking his job and a prison sentence if they’re ever caught, but that’s not Geo’s problem. As far as she’s concerned, being friends with a CO has made life a bit easier.

  She and Bukowski have been “friends” for about six months now. During that time, Geo’s received special privileges, like extra fresh fruit at mealtimes and a personal TV for her cell. He also brings her books, cosmetics, and toothpaste that isn’t available in the commissary. It’s funny how something as fucking insignificant as Sensodyne can suddenly feel so important. Everything is magnified is prison. On the outside, you bump into someone, you apologize and go on your way. The worst that might happen is they give you a dirty look, tell you to watch where you’re going. In here, bumping into the wrong bitch can land you in the infirmary for a couple of days.

  Bukowski isn’t married, but he’s had the same girlfriend since high school and the relationship has gone stale. Lori—or is it Traci?—certainly wouldn’t be pleased to know what her boyfriend does at work all day. He isn’t the first guard Geo’s slept with, but thankfully, he’ll be the last. Bukowski is in love with her—which again, is his problem—but it’s getting annoying. At least he’s nicer than the others. Helpful. Eager. Sweet, even. Right now it feels like a puppy is licking Geo’s palm. Except it’s not her palm.

  Thirty seconds later she pretends to orgasm, and then she and Bukowski switch positions. Geo has no preference over giving or receiving. Her mind is elsewhere anyway, and she thinks about a hundred other things as her tongue and lips work efficiently. Fortunately, Bukowski’s been handling himself the entire time so he’s most of the way there. They’re in their usual spot, in a little-used area in the nonfiction section, somewhere between auto mechanics and home repair. The library is closed for another ten minutes while the other guard is on lunch break, and that right there is the only good thing about getting it on with someone you’re not attracted to in prison—you have no choice but to make it quick.

  Three minutes later, Bukowski is smiling and pulling up his polyester-blend pants. Hazelwood changed the COs’ uniforms from gray to navy blue a few months ago, and the dark color looks good on him. She supposes he’s handsome, not that it matters. He hands her a bottle of water, and she takes a long sip. Bukowski watches as she smooths her hair and attempts to make it look like she hasn’t just had sex.

  “You’re out tomorrow,” he says. “What’s the first thing you’re going to do?”

  Everybody’s been asking her this. It’s a stupid question. Geo’s answered it a number of different ways so far, depending on what she thinks the other person expects to hear. “A bath,” she says. “A long, hot, bubble bath and a glass of red wine.”

  “Can’t wait to join you.”

  Only a lovesick prison guard could say something like that to an inmate and think it was somehow romantic. Geo’s been at Hazelwood for five fucking years. The absolute last thing she wants to do is hang out with a CO once she’s free. She forces a smile and sips more water, swishing it around it her mouth before swallowing. Bukowski’s taste is strong, and it’s lingering. “Don’t think your girlfriend would appreciate that, Chris.”

  “I’m thinking of ending it with her.”

  Geo pauses. “Why?”

  “You know why.” He tucks in his shirt and buckles his belt. “You’re a free woman tomorrow. We can start seeing each other openly. We can have actual sex. Have you thought about going on the pill? We—”

  “You’re ten years younger than me,” Geo says. “And I’m going to be an ex-con. Not exactly a winning combination.”

  “So? I know what we have is special.”

  I know what we have is sexual assault, Geo thinks, but doesn’t say. By law, inmates can’t consent to having sex with a corrections officer. It’s legally the same thing as rape. He seems anxious, so she smiles at him. “We’ll figure it out. Give me a few days to get settled. You know I’m staying with my dad until I get a place of my own.”

  It’s the right thing to say, and he relaxes. Keeping Bukowski happy for the twenty-four hours until her release is important. Geo never intended for things to get so serious between them (on his end, anyway), and now she has to be careful she doesn’t hurt him. She’s seen firsthand what can happen if an inmate crosses a guard. Two years ago, a young inmate tried to end her intimate relationship with a CO five days before her two-year sentence was up. The CO, an older, married man with five kids, didn’t take the rejection well. The next day, a bag of heroin and a shank were found in the inmate’s cell. She got an additional five years on her sentence. It was that simple.

  Before they exit the library, Bukowski sneaks in a quick kiss. It’s all Geo can do not to flinch. Sex is one thing; kissing is another. They say good-bye, and with any luck, it will be the last time Geo ever has sex in prison.

  She heads down the hallway and is soon approached by a tall, extremely skinny woman named Yolanda Carter. Geo doesn’t break stride, but eventually she has to, since the woman is in her way. She stops, already aware that the conversation won’t be a good one. They’ve spoken before. It’s never gone particularly well.

  “What do you want, Boney?” she asks.

  The woman’s short Afro is shaved at the sides, and both of her long, veiny arms are covered in tattoos. Sharply defined collarbones match equally sharp elbows, which jut out from the sleeves of her prison scrubs. It’s easy to see where she got her nickname, but there’s no dieting involved—Geo’s seen in her in chow hall, and the woman eats. She speaks almost as fast as her metabolism digests food, and she gets right in Geo’s face.

  “Where’s your black bitch?” Boney says with only a trace of an accent. Her voice is almost as deep as a man’s. Rumor has it she used to be a princess in Nigeria, but Boney probably started that rumor herself.

  “She’s not my bitch, and I’m not her keeper.”

  Boney puts a hand on Geo’s arm. “You tell her—”

  “Don’t touch me,” Geo says softly, staring right into the woman’s eyes.

  The woman removes her hand and takes a half step back. “You tell your friend that if she sells to another one of my customers, I will come for her. And not just in here. I got friends on the outside. I’ll come for her kids.”

  “They’re her customers, and I’m not telling her shit.” Geo turns and walks away.

  “Oh, so you’re only the banker, huh?” Boney calls, her baritone carrying down the hallway. “You think you’re not involved in this? You’re involved, bitch. You got involved the first day you met her, bitch.”

  Geo continues down the hallway without glancing back. When she turns the corner, she stops for a second to catch her breath and allow her heart rate to slow down. There’s no room for weakness in here. It’s all good and fine to be a nice person, to be pleasant and cooperative and do whatever you’re told with no attitude, but the moment someone gets in your face—the moment someone gets in your space—you can’t back down or show fear. Ever. You’ll get eaten alive.

  And if someone hurts you, you have to retaliate. Every time. Because if you don’t, they’ll keep coming.

  Right, Bernie?

  She buzzes into the medium-security wing and sees Cat being escorted down the hallway toward their cells, which are next to each other. They both got transferred out of maximum three years ago—Geo for good behavior, and Cat because she got sick. Geo is dismayed to notice that Cat’s prison scrubs look even bigger on her rapidly shrinking frame than they seemed a week ago. It’s hard to get her friend to eat,
and when she does, it’s even harder to get the food to stay down.

  Kellerman, the corrections officer assigned to drive Cat to and from the hospital, looks put out. Cat needs help walking, but he isn’t helping her. His hand is barely touching her elbow, as if he’s disgusted to be near her.

  As if stage four cancer is contagious.

  “How’d it go?” Geo asks when she catches up to them.

  “Fine,” Cat says pleasantly enough, but she’s not smiling. Her face is paler than usual, the circles under her eyes the color of eggplant. Her auburn hair, coiffed to perfection on a good day, is limp, and her gray roots are showing. “Same shit, different day.”

  “What are you doing out of work, Shaw?” Built like a power lifter, CO Kellerman is actually nicer than he looks, but very strict, with zero sense of humor. Meaty arms flank a barrel chest. “You’re supposed to stay at your work assignment until three-thirty.”

  Geo has her explanation ready. “Bukowski said I could close the salon early to help with Cat. She’s going to vomit in about two minutes.”

  Kellerman hesitates. He’s assigned to bring Cat back, but a sick, vomiting inmate is wholly unappealing.

  “I guess that’s fine,” he says, managing to sound as if he’s doing them a favor. He lets go of Cat’s arm and it drops to her side. “But you take Bonaducci straight back to her cell, you understand? No detours, except the bathroom.”

  “Oh, pity, I was hoping to go on a walking tour,” Cat says.

  The CO glares at her, but despite her snark, the woman is obviously feeling poorly. The light sheen of sweat across her forehead highlights how pale she is, and her glazed eyes are a tad unfocused.

  “Straight to your cells,” Kellerman says again, before walking away.

  Geo puts an arm around her friend, supporting her as they walk slowly down the hallway. Cat has lost so much weight, she feels like a bird whose hollow bones might snap under too much pressure. It’s a far cry from the woman Geo met five years ago, so robust and full of life. They reach Cat’s cell and Geo helps her friend sit on the bed, then grabs the bottle of water on the desk. It’s already filled in preparation for Cat’s return from the hospital; after two rounds of this, they both know the drill.

  “Easy,” Geo says when the water dribbles down Cat’s chin. “Take your time.”

  Cat finishes the water and leans back on her mattress. Her brow is furrowed, an expression of exhaustion and pain. “Fuck, I hate this.”

  “I know.” Geo strokes what’s left of Cat’s hair. She still has it, thank god, but it’s thin and has lost all of its former luster. She always looks pale after chemo, but today her skin is the color of tissue paper. “Hang in there. That was your last session.”

  “Yeah, for this round,” Cat says. “But how many more rounds? The fucking chemo feels worse than the cancer. If the cancer doesn’t kill me, the goddamned chemo will.”

  Geo adjusts Cat’s pillow and removes her running shoes. She covers her with the blanket, then moves the bucket on the floor closer to the bed, within easy reach. At some point, Cat will need to throw up, and because there’s no toilet inside the cell, the bucket will have to do. They have wet cells—cells with their own sink and toilet—only in maximum, and Cat refuses to go back to the maximum-security ward. The inmates are worse, and, besides, she doesn’t have friends there.

  Every week after chemotherapy, Geo takes care of Cat’s bucket of vomit, bringing it to the bathroom to empty out and clean. She helps her use the toilet, helps her shower, helps her brush her teeth. Geo doesn’t mind. Caring for Cat reminds her that she’s still a good person, that she can still do good things. It’s easy to forget that in here.

  “Look at the bright side,” Geo says with a smile. “You’re done with the chemo for now. Tomorrow you’ll get some energy back, and you’ll feel like yourself again. Lenny’s coming on Saturday—”

  “He’s not coming,” Cat says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He wants a divorce.” Cat’s voice cracks, and her eyes moisten. “Lenny’s leaving me. He met a woman at one of the casinos, says he’s in love. She owns a nail salon. She probably has great nails.” Cat holds up a gnarled hand. Her fingernails are brutally short and yellowed from the cancer-killing toxins being pumped into her body each week. “Not like mine.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Geo is shocked. “When did you find out?”

  “He told me last week.”

  “And you kept it to yourself the whole time?” Geo feels her anger welling up and does her best to contain it. Anger won’t help Cat now. But the whole thing is so goddamned unfair. “That sonofabitch.”

  Cat and Lenny met through the Write-A-Prisoner program. They exchanged letters for six months before he finally came to see her in person. A truck driver who’s on the road three weeks out of every month, their relationship worked quite well; Lenny finally got himself a wife who couldn’t nag him for always being away. They spoke on the phone throughout the week, and he came to see her every weekend when he was home. And every few months they were granted a twenty-four-hour conjugal visit. Hazelwood has half a dozen trailers at the back of the prison equipped with full kitchens, queen-size beds, and TVs, and they would spend that time together eating, watching movies, and having sex. Cat would glow for a whole week when she got back to her cell, recounting every tiny detail to Geo with relish.

  When she got sick eight months ago, Lenny vowed to stay with her. Cat’s in her sixties now, but before the cancer, she looked fifteen years younger than that. The look on Lenny’s face when Cat said “I do” to him in the prison chapel remains imprinted in Geo’s brain. And she can still remember the look on her friend’s face that day. The fucking sun had shone out of the woman’s eyes.

  Now, her friend’s brown eyes are glassy. The cancer has dried up her once-luminous skin, hollowing out her cheeks, the sagging skin creating jowls around a neck that used to be smooth and firm. Her once-vibrant auburn hair is a brassy rust color, despite Geo’s best efforts in the hair salon. She’s lost so much weight, the skin on her arms and legs hangs like an extra layer of clothing that’s a size too big.

  Cat has stage four colon cancer, for fuck’s sake, and her husband can’t wait? She could fucking kill Lenny. Without him, Cat will go downhill even faster.

  “Don’t be angry at him.” Her friend’s voice breaks into her thoughts. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re going to get out tomorrow and track him down and yell at him, force him to come see me. But don’t, okay?”

  It’s exactly what Geo is planning to do. “Give me one good reason why not.”

  “Because I’m asking you not to.” Cat squeezes her hand. “It’s more than the cancer that’s killing me, hon. It’s more than Lenny. It’s this goddamned place. The grayness of it, the monotony, the fact that every fucking day is the same. It’s the daily bickering and drama between women that are too old to live in a sorority house, which is exactly what it feels like here, doesn’t it? Minus the cute clothes and the boyfriends?”

  Geo opens her mouth to respond, but Cat isn’t done.

  “I can’t blame Lenny for not loving me anymore. Everything he loved about me is gone. My looks. My laugh. My sex drive. Last time we had a conjugal visit, I spent half the time sleeping. Best I could manage was a hand job.” The older woman attempts a smile, but it’s weak. “This isn’t what he signed up for. We had plans for when I got out. Mount Rushmore, Mount St. Helens, the Grand Canyon—we were going to sleep in motel rooms, fuck like rabbits, collect those souvenir shot glasses from every place we visited. I got sick and changed all that.”

  “He’s a goddamned cheating bastard,” Geo spits. She can’t help it. “It’s not right. It’s not fair.”

  “Yes, and yes,” Cat says patiently. “But we already know that about life. Tomorrow, you’ll be a free woman, and I want you to go home and never look back. Rebuild your life. Find a man. Get married. Have kids. Put all this shit behind you. And don’t ever come back
here, ever. Not even to see me. Not even when I’m dying.”

  “Stop it.” Hot tears sting Geo’s eyes, but she blinks them away before they can fall. “You’re not going to die in here. They’re going to grant you compassionate parole. We’re supposed to hear back from the parole board any day now. And when you get out, I’ll take you to all those places—”

  “I won’t make it,” Cat says gently, stroking Geo’s arm. “Accept it.”

  “No—”

  “Accept it,” Cat says again, more firmly.

  Never, Geo thinks, but she nods. It’s not her place to argue with a sick woman.

  Her friend’s gaze flickers to the TV sitting on the desk. “What’s that doing there?”

  “That’s your brand-new TV,” Geo says. “Otherwise known as my old TV, which you can now have. Eight inches of non-high-definition color, for your viewing pleasure.”

  “I wish it was eight inches of something else for my pleasure.”

  Geo snorts. “Like you could handle that.”

  “You’d be surprised. I’m small, but I’m mighty.”

  The women share a hearty laugh.

  “It’s yours now.” Geo turns it on and fiddles with it for a moment. “Look, The Young and the Restless is on.”

  She sits on the chair next to the bed. Technically, Cat needs to be approved to have a TV in her cell, but Geo can’t imagine anyone will deny her sick friend something that Geo doesn’t need anymore, anyway. The Young and the Restless is Cat’s favorite soap opera. It brings her comfort to watch the two lead characters scream at each other yet again.

  “When will she realize that he’s no good for her?” Cat says with a dramatic sigh.

  “Never,” Geo says, her feet propped up on the desk. She munches on one of Cat’s crackers and files her nails with the small emery board she bought in commissary. “Their angst will go on forever until one of them dies. It’s a soap opera.”

  The irony of fussing with her nails while watching The Young and the Restless isn’t lost on her. Five years ago, Geo had regular appointments at the nail salon down the street from her house. It was owned by a small Vietnamese woman named May, who was learning English through American soap operas. The salon had a TV mounted in the corner and The Young and the Restless was always playing at full volume. Geo would relax in a puffy faux-leather chair, her feet soaking in a tub full of swirly water, as May worked on her manicure. Every so often the woman would look up and ask, “What mean scandal?” or, “What mean adulterer?” and Geo would explain.