by Cathy Lamb
The women at this jail, downtown, were in and out, some for only twenty-four hours, or a weekend, then released. Others were there for weeks or months as they awaited trial.
One woman was screaming with anger; one was muttering to herself. A few argued with each other; one argued and swore at the prison staff, and was put back in her cell
Some were talking, being cool; others were ready to take your head off if you peered cross-eyed at them. Some were quietly crying.
I shared a cell with a woman who said her name was Jane. Then she said it was Hecks. Her third name was Prime Number. When she asked, I told her my name was Dina.
“I’m Dina now. You are Prime Number,” she told me. “I’ve got a kitty cat under the bed and a pig on the shelf.”
I peeked under the bed to humor her. She meowed at the imaginary cat and snorted at the pig. She smelled like urine. She was bony and had straggly brown hair and a face that looked as if she had been surviving on the streets for a long time, worn and tired. I put her at about thirty-two, though the lines made her seem older.
“Cat’s name is Pickle. No. Now it’s Ed. No. I think its name is Amoeba Plus Vector Calculus. Pig’s name is Quantum Physics. No. Now it’s Cylindrical Shell Method. Pig changed his name. It’s Derivative.”
I nodded.
Jane was in for robbery. Apparently she walked into a 7-Eleven wearing a red, furry cape. She put a whole bunch of Hershey’s candy bars into her bag, then went up to the checker, pretended she had a gun under the red, furry cape, and said to him, “I’m going to talk to you about the surface area of a revolution while you hand me nine dollars in quarters, then I’m going to shoot a quadratic equation.”
The clerk, who did not speak English well, as he was from Vietnam, only understood the word “shoot” and handed over the cash. He handed over three hundred dollars, in bills and change, which made Jane mad. She had asked for quarters! She started counting out nine dollars in quarters, and was still counting when the police arrived.
She had no gun. She did have a cat under her red, furry cape and was extremely upset that the cat was taken from her. Apparently she kicked at the police officer who took the cat, which was probably Amoeba Plus Vector Calculus, but it could have been Pickle.
She told me this whole story while waving her hands, wriggling her fingers, and swaying. At one point she stroked the imaginary cat in her arms and bent down and petted the pig, Derivative, aka Quantum Physics.
As I watched her I couldn’t help but think how screwed up our money situation is in this country: Billions for weapons and invading countries, and we have Jane in jail with her imaginary pig and cat because we don’t have a bed in a nice, safe, warm mental health care unit. She has pneumonia in her head and we think that because she robbed a 7-Eleven of nine dollars, her best placement is in jail.
Our cell had two bed platforms and four-inch mattresses. The floor was concrete. There was a small rectangular window with a crack in it.
The noise in jail was almost constant. Even in the middle of the night, someone was crying or throwing a fit or detoxing. The doors were steel, and during the day they clanged and banged and buzzed all the time as people came and went, inmates and staff. It was like being stuck in a beer bottle with a hundred other people without the smooth cool of the beer.
The fluorescent lights were bright and harsh, and on sixteen hours a day. There was a door on my cell to lock me in, but there was a cutout window in it, so there was no privacy at all. I had a silver toilet in my room, which was attached to a silver sink. Anyone could see when I was using the toilet if they looked in at that special moment. A silver built-in shelf held my toothbrush and toothpaste. A mirror, that was not made of glass, was above the whole thing.
I was a dangerous animal that needed to be contained. Claustrophobia made my heart palpitate, my hands tremble. My phobia about being stuck in a cage again took my breath away.
The women were in for everything: assault, murder, robbery, drugs, prostitution, street crimes. A lot of them were coming off drugs, and it was not pretty. They shook and trembled and cried and had trouble breathing. The nurses would come in and check on them, and if they gasped for air, passed out, convulsed, or vomited, they were taken to the infirmary.
One woman, who was not more than twenty, was covered in scars up and down her arms. She talked about her childhood. Attacked by her stepfather for years, addicted to coke when she was fourteen, she’d been in and out of juvie and jail since. It was not surprising that she’d reached for coke to numb the pain. I understood how someone would want to numb pain. I understood her choice.
“This time, though, I think I gotta stay for a while in Jail Hotel. I don’t got healthcare, and I need a doctor down there in the privates bad. Can you smell me?”
Another woman, short and angry, said she was innocent. “Only shot him once. Once! He cheated on me. I supposed to take that shit? He lived, too. Only hit him in the butt. Left cheek. Butt cheek.” She stood and pointed at her right butt cheek. “He’ll think of me next time he’s a pushin’ on another woman’s cushion.”
A third woman, in her forties, was in jail because she tried to burn her house down. “I didn’t do it. I don’t even know how to light a match. I don’t even know how to light a lighter. Man, I need a cigarette.”
Another inmate found out more about cigarette woman’s case and learned that she’d actually started the fire in her own home and tried to burn the house down with the kids in it. Her oldest son, twelve years old, jumped from the second story with the baby in his arms.
He broke both legs. All three kids lived because once the boy was on the ground with his broken legs, he put the baby on the grass and then caught his three-year-old sister, breaking his left shoulder.
Cigarette woman had the hell knocked out of her in the shower and ended up in the infirmary. I didn’t know who did it. I wouldn’t have told, anyhow. I don’t advocate shooting a cheating husband, but I get it. Robbery even when no one gets hurt? Hey, numbskull, don’t. But I’m not beating anyone up for it. Burning down your kids? Hurting children at all? No. Go die.
Jail brought my past rushing back until I choked on it in my own throat, the bars closing in on me tighter, tighter, tighter, till I couldn’t breathe and Alice, My Anxiety, was screaming, hands over head.
I woke up Tuesday morning at ten o’clock. Talia was gone. I ate the bacon and mushroom omelet and toast she made for me, which was high-ranking delicious; drank two glasses of orange juice and three cups of coffee with whipping cream; then cleaned her kitchen. I had already washed one of my blankets, so I washed the other one, then climbed into the deep, white tub one more time, the bubbles brewing as if I were in a cauldron. I was cold to the bone, that fever still stubbornly clinging to me, but I felt like I could function again.
When I was done, I put my blanket in the dryer and dropped my sheets into the washer so Talia wouldn’t have to do it, then went back to bed and passed out under the comforter for another hour. I put the sheets in the dryer and put on my white cable knit sweater and a white turtleneck, a red and beige scarf, dark jeans, and my cowboy boots. I wore gold hoops and two gold bangles. I put my lily bracelet on, too, for luck.
I pulled my hair back in a ponytail. I didn’t miss being a blonde at all. Auburn, my natural color, was more me. I added a little more blush than usual because I was pale and sickly looking, then liner and a smear of eye shadow.
I made my bed with the clean sheets, wrote Talia a note and told her they were washed, then almost cried as I walked down her porch at one o’clock with my bags. I was still sick and I wanted to stay. I wanted my pink flowered bedspread and the white comforter. I wanted that deep, white tub and hot water and a toilet always at the ready. I wanted to be able to throw away my pee cup for good.
I did not turn around for a last glimpse at that light blue house or the yellow chrysanthemums or the porch swing with the red pillows or the window seat. I couldn’t.
I climbed in my car, my
body stiff and old, and headed down the street, the black plastic crackling.
At least your clothes and blankets are clean, I told myself. That was a relief.
I wanted to bang my head against the steering wheel.
13
He would write about the nursery rhyme with the sheep. It was one of his favorites.
Baa, baa, black sheep,
Have you any wool?
Yes, sir, yes, sir,
Three bags full . . .
He whistled to himself. He had to make this nursery rhyme better.
Baa, baa, black sheep.
Have you any blood?
Yes, ma’am, yes, ma’am
Two bags full . . .
What would be the next line? This one was harder for him. He would have to take some time and study it. That was okay. He had time. Lots of time. He pulled a hair out of his head and ate it.
He giggled, then his face flushed.
“Shut up, Danny!” he raged, hurdling his rhyme book across the room. “I don’t want to listen to you. Shut your trap! Shut your butt!”
14
I worked my shift on Tuesday starting at five-thirty but was off by ten o’clock.
One of the regulars, a polite older gentleman named Grizz whose white and gray hair reminded me of a white and gray grizzly, said to me, “You gotta get yourself on home now, Grenady, and eat chicken soup and go to bed. Add a spoonful or two or six of whiskey to your tea and you’ll feel better soon. My grandma taught me about the whiskey and tea part.”
Ah. So someone else was handing down whiskey wisdom.
Tildy said to me, “It looks like death has come stalking,” and made me take cheddar cheese beer soup and chicken noodle soup with me. “Anytime, Grenady,” she said quietly.
I knew she was offering me a room, but it was charity and she was my boss, too. I was not pathetic. The soups did warm me up in my car that night.
And the plastic stayed over the window.
Both things to be grateful for.
My fever spiked and I shook, then it fell, and I sweated like a poaching pig.
At Hendricks’ on Wednesday I was greeted by Sam Jenkins, the same friendly man who had knocked on my window in the parking lot and who I’d almost shot.
“Welcome back, Grenady! How are you?”
“Thank you. I’m fine. How are you?”
We chatted and he talked fast again, as if he had to get all his words out quick. I asked if Bajal had had her baby yet.
“She sure did. She said she bled like a rushing river, poor girl. Hemorrhaged, but she’s right as rain now. Her husband about lost it, though, poor guy.”
I felt light-headed.
Sam had seen the baby. The baby had black hair. The father had blond hair, so there was joking about the parentage, ha ha ha.
His phone rang. “Good luck, Grenady. I hope you get the job. I think you’d fit in well here.”
“Thank you.” Oh, how I needed some luck. And health. My fever was still roaming around, but I was jacked up on coffee, orange juice, and four Advils.
I had worn black jeans and knee-high black boots. I had on a thick, dark green sweater with a V collar, a wide leather belt around my waist, and gold hoops. I wore my hair down.
I twisted my lily bracelet around my wrist and studied the rather dull lobby. I started redecorating it in my head to calm myself down. I chose the colors for the walls, then I started designing a mural . . . should it be paintings of the furniture here? The outside of the building? I thought about what kind of photos should go up, what lighting I’d choose, how a sign that said Hendricks’ Furniture should look....
I heard a door open at the end of the hallway to the right, then boots coming straight toward me. I took a steadying breath and stood up.
A man strode in. It felt as if he filled up the whole room. Tall, black hair, shoulders back, muscled up under his black T-shirt . . . I’d seen him before.
He was the McDonald’s man. Oh, shoot. Shoot. Shoot.
He was in McDonald’s when I was hiding in the back with my huge coffee, layers of sweats, a jacket, and my red knitted hat, trying not to sleep but falling asleep in the booth anyhow minutes after I’d seen him. I’d looked homeless.
He may have seen me asleep, leaning against the wall. I had probably been slobbering, or snoring, my mouth gaping open. I hoped my tongue had stayed in my mouth where it belonged.
You should walk out now, I told myself. He’s going to think you’re stupid. Lazy. Poor. Homeless. I wanted to drop my gaze. I wanted to hunch my shoulders. I fought both impulses.
“Hello.” He held out his hand and I automatically shook it.
“Kade Hendricks.”
“Hello. Grenady Wild.” I hoped he hadn’t seen me in McDonald’s—he saw me, but I hoped I didn’t register with him, that I was invisible in my homelessness. I tried to smile. My smile wobbled. I probably looked like a strange, homeless weasel.
“Nice to meet you. Come on in.”
“Thank you.” I tried to figure out whether he recognized me, but there was no sign. He put out an arm indicating I was to go first, and I walked down the hallway and into his office while we made small talk about the weather.
As we were talking, I thought, Well, whew. What I’d heard was right. Kade Hendricks was scary close up. He was six five if he was an inch. He had thick, black hair that brushed the top of his black T-shirt, dark eyes, two scars on his left cheek, and one between his neck and collarbone. He had that darkened appearance on his jaw that said he should probably be shaving twice a day but wouldn’t. He was not smiling, but he did not seem unfriendly.
I was still scared. And desperate for the job.
Kade’s office was the most distracting I’d ever been in, and I have been in a lot of offices because of the painting and collage work I’ve done for companies and law firms. It was a large corner office with a wall of windows with sweeping views of the mountains and meadows. It was like a three-dimensional postcard outside those windows. How did anyone work with a view like this?
His own furniture was in there, as one would expect. His massive desk had a carving in front of a stream and fly fisherman that was so intricate, so finely detailed, I stopped and gaped at it.
There was an armoire in the corner with two leaping salmon on each door, and a circular table with a carving on top of a grizzly momma, her two cubs wrestling, the forest behind them.
I stared out the windows. “The sunsets must be something else.”
“Yes.” He nodded and waved at the grizzly table for me to sit down. “They are. So are the sunrises. Please. Have a seat.”
I sat down, crossed my legs, and clasped my hands together tight so they wouldn’t tremble.
I wondered about the scars on his face. Obviously I would not be saying, “Hey, dude. How’d you get those scars? And why do you look so menacing, like you could pound the life out of someone without breaking a sweat?”
“So, it’s Grenadine?”
“Yes. But I’m called Grenady.” As of a few weeks ago. Grenadine Scotch Wild was my name in childhood. It was also my official name attached to my social security number and the one I wrote on my application.
Dina Wild became my name when I wanted to escape my childhood and start over. Dina came from Grena-dine. Dina Hamilton was my married name, which I never officially changed, though Covey pestered me to do so, and Grenady Wild is the name I’m using now as I escape my marriage and the publicity.
But, well, shoot. He didn’t need to know all that.
“Okay, Grenady, I was looking over your application. Looks like you’re an artist.”
“Yes.”
“I couldn’t find a website.”
“I took it down.” And . . . the website was in the name of Dina Wild.
“What kind of art?”
“Collage. Paintings. A combination of both.” That man was intimidating. Huge, unsmiling, serious. “It’s a mix. I like working with large canvases.”
�
�How large?”
“Four foot by six foot. Three feet wide by eight feet. Six foot by ten foot. Sometimes larger. I like them big.”
He blinked.
Had I just said I like them big? As in carnal big? I rushed to save myself. “I like large canvases. All my canvases tell a story, of sorts, so I need room.”
His expression didn’t change. “How do you decide what to paint?”
“I paint what’s in my head. I paint whatever I’m thinking about at the time. I’ll twist it up, spin it out, add color, add layers, add collage items, and I keep going until it feels done.” I felt myself relax a teeny bit. “I was recently commissioned by a national bird-watching group to make a collage for their headquarters. I used a three-by-eight-foot canvas and painted one eight-foot-long branch horizontally. I painted seven different birds on the branch, all native to the community. I added wood sticks to the branch and feathers to the birds.”
“I can picture it,” he said quietly. “What other kinds of collages?”
“I made a collage for a winery about two months ago. I used a lot of their corks. Hundreds of corks.” I chuckled thinking about those corks. “I painted their wine bottles on a table overlooking their land, and I used the corks for the frame.”
I told him about Divinity’s carousel and her past lives. “She has a lot going on in her imagination.”
“Sounds like it.” He laughed, and I relaxed.
He asked a lot of questions about my art. That was a safe topic for me.
“Are you going to continue your art?”
“Yes. In the future.” Not now. Hard to do so in a car. This time he waited until I started speaking again.
“I closed my business.” My clients dried up. Suspected criminal activity makes clients run away. Especially when they believe you ripped off their life savings.
