If He Hollers, Let Him Go

by Beth Harden

  “Jesus, Elise! What’s wrong with you?” he yells. My frantic fingers claw and flail at his insensitive rejection. James whirls back around and assumes a practiced defensive stance. He clamps my right wrist with one strong hand, spins me off balance with one twisting yank and then presses his bulk up against me, effectively pinning my front to the wall. My attempts to thrash and struggle resemble puny twitches of a mouse in a glue trap, all desperation but no chance of breaking free. The sensation of being restrained brings on a burst of claustrophobia and an involuntary rush of a frantic flashback. The dull ache in the pinned wrist, the shallow respirations of a compressed chest, the panic of being led meekly to the precipice of my own demise and now, I’ve lost all control. In that compromised state, the terror of the past comes shrieking out of nowhere.

  “Fuck off, you bastard! I hope you rot in flaming hell,” I shriek. There’s no going back now, girl. You’re in control. James is flabbergasted and frightened by the power of the writhing convulsions that rattle in his grasp.

  “Son-of-a-bitch! Let go of me!” I cry. My voice is frothy and pitched high with a fury dredged up from the deep. For my own safety as well as his, James stabilizes my epileptic-like struggles against a fixed surface as officers are taught to do when an irate inmate puts up major resistance. His grip is firm and non-negotiable. He says nothing; instead, he quietly waits for the fight to go out of me. When the inertia of emotional exhaustion overtakes my muscles, he relaxes his grip slightly and allows my arms to drop. Gravity restarts the circulation. Once he eases up, I slide my wilted spine down the wall and drop rump to floor. Now I am crying openly, uncontrollably. It is a behavior I have reserved and protected my whole adult life, one that is not for public viewing. There’s nothing else to do with this outburst but let it take its own unrelenting course. James doesn’t crouch to comfort me. I don’t reach out with remorse.

  “I don’t know what just happened here,” he says finally. I shrug and stare out through the flickering floaters that spiral across my watery vision. My veins pulse hard with heightened pressure. My blood feels turgid and my limbs heavy.

  “You want to explain it and help me understand?” he asks, dumbfounded.

  “I can’t,” I mumble.

  “You mean you won’t,” James says. I have no ready answer for that.

  “I don’t know if it’s safe to leave you alone. Should I call a doctor or something?” he asks. I shake my head.

  “You can go now,” I reply blankly. The flare of spontaneous combustion has now dwindled and died. It’s doubtful that it would trigger another flash fire.

  “You sure?” he asks. I can tell by the tremor in his voice that he is anxious to separate himself from this scene. He just as soon leave than stay with a madwoman.

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “Can I check on you by phone tomorrow? I’m worried about you, Elise.”

  “Sure,” I say in what rings as a feeble stab at a nonchalant response. My eardrums echo with a throbbing drumbeat. So sorry…so sorry…so sorry but I can’t put the rhythm into words.

  “Elise, we’re at that age, you know. Maybe it’s the female change, a hormone swing of some kind. Is it something serious?”

  “I’m fine,” I reply with an eerie calmness.

  “You’re freaking me out,” James says. “I’m going to give your Mom a call.”

  “No, please don’t. She can’t take anymore worry. Not after everything that has happened. My mother’s ill. We shouldn’t trouble her.”

  “Stress can do a number on people. You’re obviously under a lot of pressure at work and in your personal life. It can’t be easy. Maybe you should consider taking some time off,” he suggests.

  “You’re right,” I say. “That’s what I’m going to do. I’ll take some extended time off.”

  “There you go. Put in for family medical leave,” says James.

  “Maybe I should just quit this game early,” I reply. Shock replaces his previous state of confusion.

  “Elise. You’re making absolutely no sense. Nobody walks away from this retirement. That pension is the only reason any of us put up with this shit for so long. You’re still a few years shy of your full payout. You’d be out of your mind to do that.”

  “My mind’s never been my most reliable guide,” I confess. James becomes suddenly tender, takes my hand and helps me to a standing position. He uses a thumb to rub at the streaked mascara on my cheek and smoothes my tangled hair with his left hand.

  “You don’t have to live with these demons forever. The best way to get rid of them is to talk about what happened. Whatever it was, it’s not going to change things or scare me away. Do you believe that?” he asks.

  It’s so close I can almost grab on for dear life. The exquisite bridge that is slowly being built to connect us is nearly within reach but still only partially crafted. Will it be enough to support the dangling weight of such a burdensome past? I’m afraid to try, only to fall again. To date, no supports have held. Forget about him. Men just screw you up. It’s so unfair, so frustrating to be caught in the middle of this competing conversation. All the voices saying, Do this! No, don’t do that! Let him go! Tears of frustration bloom in my throat.

  “Did you hear what I said? Please don’t lock me out. You need to open up, Elise.”

  “I’m Lissa, goddamnit!” I blurt out impulsively. “Lissa Braum. Elise is the fucked-up person that took over my life. The one that you’re seeing now. The one that can’t love for shit. Who doesn’t know how to get out of her own skin. Who wants to keep you but will ruin everything between us. You’re better off not knowing her. Trust me.” For a few brief moments, the filter is off and the cries that come from within are the primal howls of downed prey that can no longer stay on its feet or outrun the hunter. The swells of suppressed emotion take over in unleashed sobs that shake my ribcage with their power. James wraps me in his arms and holds on tight as if to protect me from hurting myself. When I finally grow still, he lets go and lifts my chin so I have no choice but to look him straight in the eye.

  “I’m so sorry. Do you want to continue and tell me more?” he asks. I shake my head. That heated outburst of vulnerability has cooled back down into a guarded stubbornness. It was an accidental exposure. I’ve said too much already.

  “I’m listening, sweetie. With all my being,” James insists. “Are you sure?”

  “I can’t,” I state. He doesn’t push any further. Instead, he takes my hand and brings it tenderly to his chest.

  “Do you want me to stay for awhile and just be near you? We don’t have to talk at all.”

  “No, you should go. I’m exhausted. And you must be too,” I reply.

  “Well, that was a good start. A real important step. Whatever it is can wait. Get some sleep and call your doctor first thing Monday morning. I’m sure he’ll sign off on that extended leave. Some quality time with your family could do wonders. You’ll feel worlds different after a couple weeks away from all the madness. When you get back, we’ll talk some more.”

  No matter what I do, it seems I always leave good men paddling in my wake. I try to tell them it’s not worth it. I am damaged goods, guys. Hang on to those women who will have your crew socks rolled in a neat ball and your casserole stewing in the crock pot. Not me, not the person who can bring her best game to the lives of strangers, to mediocre men, mad men, even bad ones; but one who can’t offer a healthy connection to the few good men who would willingly donate their entire strength to her cause.

  “Okay,” I say weakly. My throat and nasal passages are filled with congestion from all the tears. James smiles and gives me an affectionate pat on the head.

  “Atta girl” he says.

  “Don’t forget your bag.” I nod my head in the direction of the small duffle bag that holds the few remnants of his brief stay in my life.

  #

  The number on the incoming call is indicated as Blocked; perhaps a doctor or a lawyer or a former inmate who has used the publi
c computer at city library to Google the counselor who had put her two cents recommendation into his future plan. I hesitate and let the call go to the automatic answering machine. It is Detective Hughes requesting I call him back as soon as possible. I feel a tingle of excitement at the sound of his voice trapped in the Radio Shack contraption. At the push of a button, I can make him come to life over and over. At the same time, a cold streak of dread settles in my core. Now or never, I tell myself. I dial him back.

  “It’s me. Anything new?” I ask, when he picks up after the second ring.

  “We’ve got an interesting situation here. After the first test came back, I took it upon myself to send some evidence on up to Canada where they use a different technique to lift fingerprints. It is called VMD, or Vacuum Medal Disposition. We have something similar down here in the States that uses thermal technology, but it is not nearly as sophisticated or sensitive.”

  “Okay. Shoot!” I realize the cliché cop pun after it’s fired off.

  “The forensic expert up there, an old friend of mine, put the ligatures and the pillowcase through this process and he was able to lift two prints. A partial one from the ties and a full one from the piece of linen. He sent them back to me and I ran them through the AFIS system.”

  “And…?” I ask.

  “And I got a hit,” he announces. Neither of us says anything for several long seconds. For that one blissful moment, I am still in the dark, but he knows as well as I do that I can’t dwell there any longer. He’s got the trump card and it’s time to play his hand.

  “You can tell me now,” I say.

  “They belong to a man named Terran Willis. He’s a registered felon and a repeat offender with multi-state offenses and more than a few incarcerations. He is our missing man, the one who tried to kill you. But you don’t need to live in fear right now. He is currently in prison.”

  For years I’d practiced this moment in my head. I always imagined if and when that day ever came and my attempted-killer was introduced, I’d either freeze up in paralysis or collapse in a quadriplegic mess but nothing so dramatic happens. Perhaps too much time had elapsed waiting for the pivotal moment of the plot to be revealed. The suspense has been ruined. Or maybe it’s because I already knew the ending.

  “My long-lost Mr. X,” I whisper.

  “What?” Detective Hughes asks.

  “Nothing,” I answer quickly.

  ‘”Which facility did you say you’re currently working at?” asks Hughes.

  “Fowler,” I reply quickly. The lie comes out more easily that it should have. The man shouldn’t know that my enemy is right underfoot; not before I decide exactly what I’m going to do.

  “The female prison, right? Good! That eliminates a huge concern then. Otherwise you’d need to go to the authorities and lodge a profile right away. You wouldn’t want to be in the same prison with your attacker. So, he’s open game, Elise. There is no statute of limitations on prosecuting an unsolved crime of this magnitude. We’ve got proof of Attempted Murder here.” He hesitates and there is nothing but dead silence. What does one say in response to that?

  “So what do you want to do?” Detective Hughes asks finally.

  “I don’t know,” I reply.

  “I understand this is a big deal and a psychological struggle. After all the time it took to put this behind you. You may not want to dredge it up. It’s very difficult going to trial. I may be able to put a case together with the D.A. and push for a plea. That would spare such intense personal scrutiny and exposure to details that you might rather avoid.”

  “May I put some thought into this and then let you know my decision? There’s a lot to consider and though I’m the one that pushed for the answer, the reality of knowing the truth is pretty overwhelming,” I say.

  “I’m not at all surprised. I think I cautioned you about this when you first asked me. But I wanted to finally get to the answer truth you deserve, and now you have it.”

  “Thank you, Detective for going the extra distance with this. A least the mystery is solved. I will think this over before we make any move. I’m not so comfortable playing God, you know?”

  “Yes, I understand. I respect that. Get back to me when you feel ready.”

  After we hang up, I watch the rain strike the skylight with the force of small pellets shot from the pressurized barrel of a BB rifle. Hot humidity has been stalled over the East Coast for days and now tailgating cold air has slammed up the back of this idle mass of moisture. The lightning it produces causes an involuntary flinch. I am too big to hide in the linen closet or under the bed as I once did; but not too old to shut all the bedroom doors and create a little storm shelter within the walls of the hallway. As I cower there listening to the tropical wind threatening to upend the shingles, it occurs to me. I have been building a storm brake for nearly a quarter-century, following a careful emotional blueprint that has effectively sealed me off from any future catastrophe. My retreat was designed to keep enemies and the elements at bay and up until today, it had worked.

  #

  Every so often we’re handed a gem, a small chip of diamond sifted out from the coarse sand of hard reality. The Records Specialist calls to tell me that there is a guy in my unit whose sentence time was miscalculated. Apparently he had jail credit that was overlooked and when it was applied to his docket made him a free man two weeks ago. The Department of Correction is holding him unlawfully. Of course, I don’t plan on telling the inmate about this inadvertent blunder or we’ll incur another lawsuit.

  I take the discharge forms down to my office and ask the block officer to pop out Mr. Dailey in 8 Cube, B- bunk. He’s housed back in the stuffy dorm where the un-sentenced guys are kept. Seven minutes pass by before a short, middle-aged man with a crew cut and striking blue eyes steps in the office. His arms are wrapped protectively around his chest and he looks puffy and disconcerted.

  “Take a seat,” I say. It sounds more like an order than an invitation. Mr. Dailey blinks rapidly and settles on the edge of the chair like he’s back in middle school and has just been called to the Principal’s office. His guilty conscience is hard at work.

  “Apologies, ma’am. I was asleep,” Dailey says. “I had a rough night.”

  “You just come in?”

  “Yeah two nights ago from the County Jail but I’ve gotten no sleep since I’ve been here. Plus, I almost got into it with someone this morning.”

  “What happened?” I ask him. The precious release form burns a hole in my palm. My secret for now.

  “I saw the laundry worker taking out the linens so I grabbed my tee shirts and threw them in to get cleaned. The dude on the bunk above calls me over a while later and says, ‘You ever touch my stuff again, I’ll beat the living shit out of you.’ Apparently one of his shirts had fallen down and was wedged next to my mattress. I took it by accident. The guy was pushing for a reaction. I know myself and it was a big deal for me just to walk away,” he says. Dailey shivers and yawns, though it is already getting very warm in here.

  “Well, I guess you’re being rewarded for your wise choice. You’re leaving,” I announce. He looks at me, startled.

  “What do you mean? When?”

  “Today. As soon as we can make transportation arrangements. You’re gone,” I repeat. A grin is seeping out my mouth. I can’t help it. I see his whole countenance change. Dailey hugs himself, drops his head, runs his hand across his head, looks up, smiles, looks away, looks back and snaps to attention.

  “You mean, today? Right now? For real? This can’t be happening. I don’t believe it. Pinch me,” he says.

  “Yes. We’ll make a call to your family so someone can come pick you up. Seems you’re today’s lucky winner.”

  While I’m on the phone with his elderly father, Dailey continues to marvel over this piece of unexpected good fortune. Nice surprises just don’t happen in jail.

  “Okay, he’ll be here in two hours. I suggest you go pack up your things and be ready,” I say aft
er hanging up the phone. Dailey stands to his feet, still amazed.

  “You’re an angel, that’s all I gotta say.”

  “I had nothing to do with this. I’m just the messenger,” I reply.

  “Yeah, a messenger from heaven,” he states. “An angel, like I said.”

  “Fine, I’ll take it. You go get ready for your new life.”

  “You know what I’m going to do?” he asks. “I’m going to give that guy all my new shirts. The ones Property just gave me. I’ll tell him, ‘you need 'em more than me.’ That’ll make things right, you think?”

  “I like it. Paying it forward instead of a payback. Nice move, Mr. Dailey. I like it a lot. He’ll be wondering what prompted you to be so generous and you’ll be long gone.”

  “Thank Jesus, I can get out of here and never have to do another night like that,” he says. “Miss, I thank you. There is a God. No doubt now. And Miss, I’ll never forget this. I swear!” he gushes. I walk Dailey to the door, unlock the bolt and release him back into the bull pen. If there is a God, my guess is He’s an avid writer, one who enjoys crafting up a nice reversal and a surprise ending that leaves his reader breathless. It’s moments like these that balance the massive weight that overburdens the scale on the glass-is-just-about-empty side of the house.

  #

  It isn’t until the car is a quarter-mile down the road that what looks to be an errant leaf trapped under the arm of the windshield wiper turns out to be a slim strip of newspaper fluttering recklessly in a gust of summer wind. The bold strokes of penmanship can be seen. If the clouds let loose like they are threatening to do, the handwriting will be lost in the downpour. I flick on my right-hand signal and settle the car into park on the shoulder of the access road. The perimeter van slows to have a look. Any stopped vehicle on the state-owned driveway is suspect. I snap my badge off my belt and flash it for the concerned guard who is satisfied as to my identity. He waves then and eases down the slope of road that he’s navigated a thousand times with his hand on the concealed shotgun riding just under his seat. A part of him is disappointed; he’s been hoping and praying his whole career that one day he’ll come across a lone runner in tan pants making a desperate break over the low stubble of dead grass so he can finally use the tactical weapon skills he’s super-certified in. He’s got more chance of hitting the Powerball jackpot than getting a pot shot off at an escapee. In Hazen’s sixty-year history, only one inmate ever broke loose from custody but that was during a court transport in the days when officers routinely carried guns and were overpowered with one of their own firearms.