by Beth Harden
“Hey, do you think the gentlemen would prefer to have the crusts trimmed off their sandwiches?”
“Fuck you, Slater,” chimes in the harried kitchen crew. But the humor breaks the impasse and the line starts up again. There’s camaraderie in this chore as nurses, teachers and counselors all work side by side. Once the meals are stacked, taped and labeled for delivery, we roll the Cambro units to the respective blocks. A plastic garbage bag is knotted to the crates of jungle juice that are pulled along behind. By the time the food and beverage arrives at the customer’s door, half the drinks have tipped over and spilled. The cutting-edge architect who designed this prison in the mid-fifties never thought about door-to-door delivery to two-thousand caged customers. The newer facilities have traps that drop open so trays can be handed in horizontally. Not here. I always find myself apologizing profusely as the container is tipped vertically and crushed through the square opening. Molasses and watery barbecue sauce dribble down the doors and onto the floor.
Now here I am sticky and over-heated walking alongside a rolling palette of chairs, trying to regain my composure. Chulo manhandles the cart to our designated space and angles it into position as I unlock the door. The room serves multiple purposes but has no real function, doubling as a secret break room, a place to sort incoming packages and a dumping ground for broken furniture. Empty cartons are stacked in one corner. Several old Dunkin Donuts coffee cups are on the table. Chulo senses my discouragement and goes into action. For someone who was removed from the real world at nineteen years of age, he has very strong organizational skills and knows how to step up with initiative. He procures antibacterial spray and paper towels from the cart and starts washing down the tables and chairs, methodically scrubbing away any invisible contaminants.
“I know what goes on in here. This stuff is dirty,” he warns. I reach to lift a blue plastic chair from the stack but Chulo hustles over.
“I got you. I got you,” he says, and will not let me do what he perceives as a man’s work; or more correctly stated, a male inmate’s job. While he is arranging the chairs, I begin to sort out the homework and handouts. The sterile room has no accoutrements and the acoustics are horrible. Every sound echoes painfully. The din from the adjoining blocks is muffled but provides a relentless backdrop of competing noise. Chulo pulls the door closed. I note that there is a telephone in the corner and two rovers stationed in the hallway.
“I bet your family worries about you working here,” he says. It’s a neutral statement set out as bait. I let the ambiguity lie there.
“Nothing to worry about,” I reply. He smiles.
“We all talk in here. That’s what we do, like a bunch of girls. And I know you’ve got their respect, Miss A, but there’s always a knucklehead or two that will fuck things up. You gotta be tough with these guys. Send a message if you have to.”
“I haven’t had any problem,” I say. When Chulo turns his back to scrub down the table top, I go over and release the door knob so that the door is once again ajar.
“I hear you but like I said, guys talk. The simplest thing, like you speaking to one guy after class or giving him extra help, and next you know he’s telling everyone that you like him and he’s in with you, you know?”
“Are you referring to anyone in particular?” I ask.
“Listen, I’ve straightened out a couple dudes who got the wrong thoughts in their head with you being a female and all. You treat us fair like human beings, but some of these guys are crazy and interpret what they want.”
“I certainly can’t control their thoughts.”
“No, but I’m just sayin to be mindful.” He has something or someone in mind. After a year of working in close proximity, we have learned to read each other well. If Chulo had not chosen to gun down two rival gang members, he could really have excelled in life. Even with English as his second language, he is articulate and has a good bead on people. He claims that comes from studying human nature at its worst for over twenty-two years.
“So, who should I watch?” I ask point-blank.
“That Willis dude. I see him in your class and he’s a smart guy. He talks a good talk, but I hear him back in the block on the phone to his people. Be careful is all I’m sayin’.”
“I think you’re wrong about him. Maybe there’s a little testosterone quarrel going on here.”
“I look out for you because I like you. I’ve never been able to talk to a woman like I can with you.”
“That’s because you haven’t been around a woman for two decades. Anything looks good at this point,” I tease.
“Miss A, I’m serious. The other counselors are alright but they’re like girlie-girls and look down on us. Some are straight-up bitches. Everyone can see that you are real and don’t judge us. But that kindness can be twisted in the wrong guy’s mind.” I start wiping the dry erase board with a rag but the permanent marker does not come off.
“You have some of that spray I can use?” I ask. He comes over with the bottle and a clean cloth and playfully dabs at my cheek with it.
“You’ve got some food or something on you.” The touch is a trespass. I react by dropping my eyes and scanning my shirt for stains.
“We had to stand chow today,” I say apologetically as a way of an explanation.
“You’re blushing. I can see it. Why you be blushing?” he laughs.
“I’m not blushing. I’m sweating,” I reply.
“But you looked away. Why, Miss A?”
“You’re seeing things, Mr. Diaz. Let’s get this finished up.” I can sense that he is taking his time and is certainly in no hurry to get back to Cell # 318. Chulo pulls a Polaroid out of the elastic waistline of his pants and holds it out.
“Have I ever shown you this?” he asks. It’s a photograph of a young Latino man with long hair, vintage nineteen-eighties or so, dressed in a silky blue graduation gown and holding a diploma aloft.
“Yes, I’ve seen this before. It was taken when you received your GED. In 1992, wasn’t it?” I say. He nods proudly. Since then, he has accumulated an increasing stack of certificates in computer repair, culinary arts and most recently, as a certified nurse’s aide and hospice worker.
“How can you not be cocky about that?” I say. It’s his turn to flush now. After all, he’s Chulo, the rooster.
“I’d like for you to see me someday outside of here. Who I really am, you know? Your kids and husband or boyfriend or whatever, they don’t need to worry. We could have some fun over drinks and shoot the crap, you know, like regular people do. I told Mr. Snyder and Mr. Hastings the same thing. Would you do it?”
“Meet up with friends after work? I do it all the time,” I respond generically.
“Hey, maybe you can be my ride outta here,” he jokes.
“What year will that be?”
“2026.”
“I’ll put it on my calendar,” I say. He does a little Puerto-Rican salsa right then and there with a grin as innocent as a schoolyard boy. I shake my head. When he sashays up closer, my stance straightens but I certainly do not anticipate the embrace that he places around my waist, then slides up to my shoulders. It is firm and close. I can only imagine what this must feel like to a man who has been without a woman for all but one year of his adult life. I stiffen up immediately.
“Just this once,” he whispers. “Just one hug.” I decide it’s wisest and safest to placate him and so I reach around and give him a brotherly pat with both hands on his back, then step backwards.
“We’re done here,” I announce and walk out of the room ahead of him. We maintain some benign banter as we wheel the cart back up to the warehouse, but I can’t decipher what he’s thinking. He’s always had my best interests at the forefront and has faithfully acted to protect me from harm. One hug is all. After everything he’s done to make my job easier, it would be suicide to rat him out. And that’s just not what people do in here, least not the strong ones.
#
A car is making its
way down the gravel drive. I hold my breath. About halfway down the two-hundred yard road, travelers usually spy the private property sign, realize that they have mistaken this for a state park entrance and use the shorn circle of grass near the cedar gate as a turnaround. But after a slight pause, this vehicle keeps coming. Though it is close to the dinner hour, it is still plenty light and soon the bumper of a big Ford pick-up glints through the maples at the second bend. I have three guns placed at planned lookout spots throughout the house. One 20-gauge sits in the front coat closet with a box of pheasant shell in the hat basket beside it. The loaded .22 automatic rifle rests comfortably with the safety on in the blanket chest by the second-story dormer and my pistol nests in a basket of photo albums near the bed. I watch and wait with my thumb hovering over speed dial. I chose this cape for this one factor alone. Location, location, location. Next to nothing and near no one.
It is a lie, what I told Chulo about getting together with co-workers all the time, a bluff to throw him off track. I keep close to home by choice. They say in life that ninety percent is what happens to us; the other ten percent is how we respond to it, and that we cannot worry about what we can’t control. I don’t know if it was Mark Twain or Woody Allen or Joan Rivers who made that up, but I have sweetened the odds in my favor. Here in a remote stretch of farmland just south of Brigham and thirty-eight miles from my workplace, I have created a rural alcove as my domain. There is no name on the mailbox, no listing in the yellow pages, no approaching stranger that can’t be spotted by Rio, Brindy or Vera, my free-roaming police dogs. Every night is a three-dog night in my bedroom where the trio of scouts circles my bed, ever on alert. I hear the call go up now, the shepherds barking wildly as they tail the truck like wolves running down a slow calf. The driver parks the rig and steps out undeterred by the canine frenzy at his feet. With both a sigh of relief and a register of surprise, I see it is Hastings out of uniform in a short-sleeve linen shirt and camel-colored slacks. He waves as I swing open the door.
“What the hell…?” I call out.
“Hey girl. Thought you might like to accompany me for dinner. You haven’t eaten yet, have you?” he asks brightly. I shake my head. I’m barefoot in a batik sundress with not a blush of make-up on. A snap of my fingers sends the dogs to their bellies in the grass. My fingers and palms are stained blood-red.
“I’ve been weeding the strawberries and am pretty settled in now. Plus I’m filthy,” I say self-consciously. A fact easily observed on bare legs caked to the shins with dried mud. Red flares from nettles pepper my arms.
“Well, that works out perfectly because I brought the dinner here. Go take a shower and I’ll pour us some wine,” he replies. I start to protest but this is Hastings, my close friend and not a person who is easily swayed in negotiations. I back in to the cool interior and he follows. When I return in twenty minutes, the meal is spread on a faded bedspread under the red maple. How perfectly adolescent and sweet! A cloud of jasmine emanates from my wet hair and my skin radiates after a fierce exfoliation with lemon sea salt. I scoot onto the blanket beside him.
“How is it you’re free on a Saturday night? Aren’t there soccer games or things to grill or a lawn to mow?” I ask, taking the plastic goblet of Riesling. “Thank you,” I add.
“There always is, but I had to get out of there.”
“I’m sorry. Are things in a rough patch again?” I ask. Hastings (aka James outside of work, though I can’t classify him by any other name) leans back and takes in the phenomenal view from this hillside. The acres of agriculture roll back from the main road. Geese are gathered in dark clots debating whether to scrounge for sprouted seed or look for a good launching pad. Seems the seasonal clocks are all off. Sparrows sang all through the deep winter when the persistence of sun teased the thermometer to stay above freezing. The flocks congregated way back in November as usual, but never came to a consensus about the departure time or flight pattern and have stayed huddled in Norfolk Valley ever since.
“You have no idea. It’s not a spell or a stage. It’s like living with a child. A totally immature and anxious one. Allyson needs me for stability and to make all the decisions and keep things running smoothly. She can’t do shit for herself, but she’s worse than the girls. She gets so stressed by life that she always trying to control everything. Problem is she doesn’t have a clue to what she’s doing.”
“Is she still on her medication?” I ask. A seed pod falls from the catalpa tree and lands in the tub of potato salad. I lift it out and toss it to the tree line. He shakes his head.
“Well, what can I do to help you?” I ask with genuine concern.
“Not a thing but this. I feel calm around you. Things make more sense. I love my kids but I swear to God I can’t take her theatrics anymore. She went into a downspin this morning and started sobbing that she wasn’t worth the food she ate. Her self-esteem is shaky and she is so needy. Complains that I am never home when I’m working double shifts to keep her happy and forgive me Christ, there’s days like today that I’d rather be in a shithole prison that at home.” He turns towards me and props his frame up on one steady elbow. “Elise, do you think love is only for a time and a season?”
“That’s a trick question. I can tell,” I say. “I believe in soul mates that are meant to be together. And if you are lucky enough to find that person, there is no desire to be with another.”
“So, you’ve found yours?” he asks. I nod.
“Then why are you alone?” he asks, dismayed.
“Sometimes circumstances prevent that relationship in the physical realm. But in the parallel universe where our minds and hearts dwell we are together. Always.”
“Sounds like bullshit to me. You deserve to have the experience of being loved in the present. We all do! Who is this lucky guy?” he asks.
“You silly man! No one you know. A friend from back home.” James looks at me quizzically and then decides not to pursue that line of questioning.
“So basically, you’re in love with an invisible man. Well, I can see one significant benefit with that arrangement. It sure eliminates a lot of arguments,” he teases. I slap him warmly on the shoulder. The sun settles behind the horizon and the coolness of evening creeps up from the dank earth. I allow James to vent, fall silent and vent again. Another glass of wine for both and we wander off onto other topics - books and hiking and philosophy and nutrition and politics and pretty soon the creep of dew has dampened the ground cover. This isn’t the first time he has thought to try to kiss me, but it is the first time I have allowed him to linger and find a rhythm with my tongue. James stands to his feet, takes my hand and pulls me up. I lean down to gather up our leftovers.
“Leave it. I’ll come back for them,” he says firmly.
I should not have been surprised then when he leads me past the den and straight back towards the bedroom. At any point, I am free to pull up short or turn back. When he lifts me up onto the bed in a kneeling position, I hesitate.
“James, this is not what your marriage needs,” I say in a firm voice.
“This is exactly what I need. Will you let me love you, Elise? You can’t really prevent it because I already do. And have.” I smile and cup his handsome, yearning face in my palms.
“Yes, but you can love me from afar and not cause harm to anyone else,” I suggest. But all he has heard is the one-word affirmation. He deftly peels the sundress off over my head and then pulls me against him. His hands run along my back in massaging pulses over ribs and shoulder blades and collar bone. They wander through the hair that has tumbled in a wet sheath down my back. And then he pushes back to undress himself while maintaining unwavering eye contact. It isn’t until he has lowered himself on top of me that he asks again.
“Is it alright?”
I can’t convincingly say yes or no. I have no ready answer but I find my hands reaching up and pulling him downwards. I’ve never felt the hard weight of such a powerful man before and though my lungs are hard pressed to
expand, he rests there only a moment before his urges take him on a crawl down the length of me. ‘Beautiful. Amazing,' he whispers at each stop along the way. And then he is quiet as he stops to worship at the most sacred of thrones and suddenly I am the one that is vocal, crying out in a howl that these rafters have never heard. Not once, but again and still he lingers between my thighs kissing and nuzzling me. I squirm to relieve the intensity that is somewhere on the spectrum between pleasure and pain. He senses the shift and climbs back up to hover over me face to face.
“I love you,” he says as he exacts a slow entrance, pushing deeper and deeper. It is a tight fit that he explores carefully and then in faster repetitions. When he reaches his climax, his entire frame stiffens and he erupts in an alien moan. The dogs startle in the living room and begin scratching at the closed door. After several shudders, he releases and relaxes on top of me but does not withdraw. My legs are shaking uncontrollably and tears come spinning out of nowhere. I hold him tightly and run my hands over his perspiring skin. I tangle my fingertips in his coarse hair and kiss his forehead.
“Hold me. Hold me,” I moan over and over…….
I wake instantly, jerking my head up. A pinching pain shoots up the side of my neck. A small trail of drool has crept from the corner of my mouth and left a circle of residue on the throw pillow. The sensation of culminated pleasure still ebbs between my legs. I am on the couch alone with the reading light still ablaze and my worn copy of Lolita splayed page akimbo on the floor. The rocking sensation is nothing more than Rio kicking the couch in spasms of sleep. I jump up to check. There is no pick-up trick, no dewy blanket or picnic leftovers with an ant invasion. I am mystified and embarrassed by the source of my pleasure. Dreams like this are for adolescent boys. Though he is a virile specimen, James is a friend and I don’t consciously have a sexual interest in him. I swore to myself long ago that if I could no longer attach emotion to sex, than I would forfeit the pretense of making love altogether. That way, nobody else was involved in the eventual disappointment of hastily pulling on underwear and pants in an awkward attempt to cover up an empty soul. The handful of men I had taken to bed years after my ordeal remained just a few and then became none. It was a part of my life that had people known about it; they would have likely judged me rather than pitied me. The messed-up middle that resembled an erratic pattern of emotional starts and stops that I diagnosed as my own peculiar brand of A.D.D. or affection disconnect disorder.
