Save Johanna!

by Francine Pascal

  “People like you can’t begin to understand a man like Avrum,” she says. “You think so tight and middle-class. Did he love her? Like that would have some importance.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “Not the conventional limited kind of love you’re talking about.”

  “If I’m so middle-class and conventional, what’s a nurse?”

  “That was Alice Rheinlander, a long time ago before I met Avrum.”

  “I’d like to know more about Alice Rheinlander.”

  “Look it up.”

  “I did, but there wasn’t too much. You’re the oldest of eight brothers and sisters, parents were working-class people of Polish extraction from the north end of Chicago, good church-going Catholics until father drops out of the picture when you’re about fourteen. That’s all I could come up with and no mention of you studying nursing.”

  “Or that the old man was a fucking drunk, a bastard who used to belt me and my mother around whenever he felt like it. Did it say that?”

  “No.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s what happened. My mother and I were the working-class people; he never worked the same job longer than a month, and the only time he came home was when he needed someone to beat up on. I hated that prick and he hated me, but not enough so’s he wouldn’t take my money. And the other kids too, they didn’t care about anybody but themselves. All they ever wanted from me was to give them things. They figured that with my looks they didn’t have to worry that I would ever go off and get married.”

  She pauses for an instant, and I almost feel she’s waiting for me to jump in and say that there’s nothing wrong with her looks, but there’s everything wrong with them, and I say nothing. She goes on about how they would have liked it just fine if she stuck around for always because then they wouldn’t have to do anything for themselves and she’d end up taking care of her mother too, and on and on in a bitter tirade against all the people in her life who took from her and expected to keep taking because when you’re ugly and a woman that’s your fate. Everyone was included; even the sick people she cared for ultimately, she felt, treated her with contempt. I can hardly hear her because I’m so deep into my own guilt. I failed her too. There was a moment before when she seemed to be asking for some assurance from me, but I didn’t give it. And she needed it. Like everyone else in her life, I was only taking from her.

  “Except Avrum,” she says. “He knows how to give. That’s his strength. He gives and that makes you want to give, but he never takes, he only accepts.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I told you.”

  “But I don’t understand. What does he give?”

  She hesitates a moment as if she’s deciding whether to share her secret with me, and then, because obviously she’s proud of her discovery, she does. “He gives the most powerful thing a human being can produce, his own energy.”

  She’s caught me, and she knows it. I’m fascinated because I too have felt that aura of electricity about Avrum. I would never have thought to call it energy, personal magnetism possibly, but energy comes closer to defining its purity, its force.

  I want her to talk more about it. I try to get her to elaborate, but she senses she has an advantage and it hardens her hostility. “Don’t bullshit me,” she snarls. “You spent enough time with Avrum to know exactly what I mean.”

  She brings out an aggression in me that I rarely suffer in an interview. “I wouldn’t waste my time asking you these questions if I already knew the answers.”

  “I’ll be damned if I know what the fuck you’re doing here anyway. You did the article already. Why all this new shit?”

  “I told you, I’m writing a novel.”

  “Can’t get enough of him, huh?”

  I pay no attention. “What sort of relationship did you have with Avrum? I mean your own personal relationship.”

  “You mean did we fuck?”

  “If that was important to the relationship, then, yes.”

  “Well, we did. He wanted me all the time, nearly every day; does that surprise you?”

  “Was it communal sex?”

  “Not when we fucked. It was different. We were making love, and Avrum wanted us to be alone.”

  I listen to her create a relationship that I know from Avrum never existed outside of her own fantasies. I pretend to believe everything she says, and from the depth of the detail I can tell these things really happened. But not to her.

  Nancy and Leo have long since given up pretending not to hear and are listening openly, totally absorbed. Swat spares us no intimacy, and though I try not to show any reaction, I can see from her self-satisfied look that she knows she’s made me squirm. A couple of times I try to interrupt her and move her onto something else, but aside from the pleasure she’s enjoying from my unease, relating these tales probably gives them more reality than they’ve ever had. How hard it must have been for her to stand by and watch the man she loved making love to someone else. To be always the outsider. As she speaks, her face alternately glows with passion and becomes gentle with tenderness. It’s as if she’d forgotten it wasn’t she who was making love to Avrum.

  “Did he have sex with other women too?” I ask.

  “Did he ever fuck you?”

  “This gets pointless unless you at least try to answer my questions.”

  “All those hours and days you spent interviewing him, did he ever run his fingers over your breasts?”

  “Look, Swat, why don’t you cut it out. I only have a few more minutes.”

  “Or stick them in your cunt. I bet you’d have liked that.”

  I start to gather my things together, and that seems to make her angrier. “Tightasses like you always get hot for Avrum. I’ve seen it happen a million times. You think you’re a big hotshot writer, too good for people like us, studying us like we were some disgusting germs under a microscope. But I see through you. You’d give anything to get a real man like Avrum in your pants, but you haven’t got a chance, so all you can do is dream about it or hang around and listen to someone like me tell you what it feels like. Did you come yet, or should I give you another round?”

  “Don’t bother.” I take my pocketbook off the back of the chair and start to get up. “Your dreams don’t turn me on, thanks, anyway.”

  “What do you fucking mean, my dreams?” She’s up now too and flat against the screen, red with anger.

  “All that garbage you spewed out before. Bullshit, that’s what it is.” My voice is quavering.

  “Who says!”

  “Avrum.”

  “Lying cunt! He never said that. We fucked plenty. He loved me, and he trusted me. The others were morons, and we both knew it. It was him and me that night we killed those fucking pigs. Him and me!”

  I buzz for the matron to let me out.

  “You bitch!” she shouts at me. “You want him and you’re jealous of me, that’s what!”

  I turn away from her and stand facing the door, waiting, trying not to let her see how upset I am. I know there’s a strong metal screen over the bars holding her back, but still I’m scared. Even Leo moves away from the screen, and Nancy is leaning hard on her buzzer.

  “I’m going to tell you something, whore! Cunt! I’m going to get you. Avrum’s got plans. Turn around, you bitch!”

  I don’t move.

  “He’s going to get us out. He’s working on it, he said so, and when he says something, it happens. Avrum makes things happen. I’m not telling you when, but you better watch out, bitch, because when I get out I’m coming to get you!”

  By now Leo and I are up against the door, and I’m covered with sweat. I don’t even know when I grabbed his hand, but I’m squeezing it as tightly as I can right now. He doesn’t say anything to me; he wants to get out as fast as he can too.

  Swat’s curses hurled at me in high, raw shrieks assault my back. She’s crying and screaming at the same time, and it’s all about me. I don’t know how this happened, but it’s terrifyin
g.

  Where is that damned matron!

  I start to knock on the door, first with restraint and then building until I’m pounding and Leo’s pounding, but we can’t even hear our sounds over the cacophony of clashing metal crashing into its own echoes and strung across the top of everything a hideous wailing and howling.

  I feel my back about to be pounced on and spin around quickly. She’s still locked behind the gates but now she’s climbed halfway up the wire mesh, clinging with fingers and toes sticking through, using her body weight to swing back and forth against the bars. Her crimson face is pressed hard against the metal, her flesh bubbling up through the crisscross pattern of the bars cutting across her mouth where, like a mad dog, saliva foams up at both ends.

  The door behind Swat swings open, and two men and a woman rush in. Almost simultaneously, Nancy disappears out the door. Expertly, the two men hold Swat’s body firmly against the screen while the woman shoots a needle high up into the skinny bare thigh with a dartlike thrust. Deftly she squeezes the fluid into Swat, and within no more than five seconds the wailing sound winds down and the crazed body goes limp. The two men easily disentangle her, wrapping her arms in a straitjacket, and cart her off. Not one of them has said a word to her or to us.

  Leo lets out a sigh of relief, runs his hand through his thin gray hair and, smoothing it down, slides his straw hat low on his forehead.

  “Woo wee,” he shakes his head. “You just better pray she doesn’t ever get out.”

  A shudder passes through my body at the thought just as something knocks my shoulder, making me jump back and let out a yelp. It’s only the door behind me being opened by the matron, who, as if nothing has happened, comes in smiling, and all my terror turns to outrage.

  “Where were you! We’ve been pounding on this goddamn door and pushing the buzzers and everything. That woman went mad. Didn’t you hear!”

  “Sorry, honey,” she says, not at all sorry, “but you’re not the only ones in this place, you know.”

  “Incredible!” I say to Leo, who shrugs his shoulders in resignation. One look at the matron’s stony I-dare-you face, and I know she’s aching to take me on. I can see there’s nothing I can do about this; besides, the only thing I’d really like to do is whack the bitch over the head with my pocketbook, which of course I can’t do, mainly because she’d probably snap me in half. I feel as powerless as one of her prisoners. All I can think of now is getting out of here.

  The idea that I have to come back to this place tomorrow to interview Imogene turns my stomach.

  My body feels as if it’s taken a hard blow, and the sharp sense of danger I felt is still with me. I can’t get away fast enough. I practically race from one identification point to the next, hurriedly emptying out my pocketbook at each one, fumbling for the passes, for the ID cards, letters, whatever. Twice the guards ask me if there’s anything wrong, and all I can do is shake my head, no. The only thing on my mind is how long Swat is going to be in prison. Not for a minute do I think she can escape, Avrum or no Avrum. But just the thought of her being paroled, even ten years from now, unnerves me.

  I hadn’t noticed that Leo is still with me. He doesn’t look so good either.

  “God,” I say, “that was an awful experience.”

  “That’s one of them Maheely girls, ain’t it?”

  “Right. And she’s going to be in there for a long, long time.”

  “A real loony. How long is she in for?”

  “Life. She’ll probably come up for parole in about ten years, but that’s academic because nobody’s going to parole any of that group, not until they’re eighty, at least.”

  “You’re right. Only way that one’s getting out is over the wall.”

  “And that’s impossible in this place, isn’t it?”

  He shrugs his shoulders. “It happens.”

  There’s an unpleasant thump at the bottom of my stomach. “I can’t believe it. This place is like a fortress.”

  “Still, it happens.”

  I take a good hard look at Leo to make sure he’s not doing this to tease me, but he’s serious. “When was the last time anybody broke out of here?”

  “I don’t know. Not lately, anyhow.”

  “See.”

  “Not for four, five years. Not since Nancy.”

  “Nancy!” I say it so loud two guards snap around. Dull, gray, unmotivated, unimaginative, soft, dumb Nancy! Oh God, how hard can it be? I’ll never be able to sleep again.

  “Yep, she sure did. She and Whistle Kramer, you know that girl what went along with that Utah Sniper?”

  “I remember. What happened?”

  “Nothing much. They both got caught inside a week. But they did it.”

  “How?”

  “They was both working in food deliveries, and just like in the movies one day they get this chance to hide out in some big, empty rice barrels. So they did, and next thing they know they’re fifteen miles away in a big warehouse, and then all they did was wait till it was dark and quiet, and then real carefully they just walked out.”

  “Jesus.”

  “And that wasn’t even really planned, but Nancy’s pretty smart when she’s gotta be.”

  He waits for me to ask more questions, but I don’t because I can’t bear to hear any more about how easy it is to walk out of this maximum-security prison. Or how smart Nancy is when I saw for myself that she can’t have half the brains of Swat. Another thing I certainly don’t want ever to know is what that sweet little gray-haired lady did to end up in this place. I’d like to think it was aggravated shoplifting but more likely it was aggravated infanticide, and when I look at Leo, to whom I was about to offer a lift back to San Francisco, I decide he probably helped.

  “So long, Leo. Nice to meet you.” And I speed to my rented Kia, jump in and lock the doors. All the way back I try to control the horror-movie scenes that keep flashing in my mind of Swat trying to tear her way out of that cage to get to me. Finally, the only thing that calms me at all is the thought that realistically the odds against her escaping and coming after me are infinitely greater than the simple possibility that some freeway fool is going to slam into the rear of this crappy car and explode it if I let my mind keep wandering like this.

  I treat myself to a delicious dinner at a restaurant right in the hotel, where I polish off nearly a whole bottle of Bordeaux, all by myself. By ten-thirty I’m in bed with the door locked and chained, windows checked, and all the lights on.

  David calls. It’s so good to hear his soothing, solid, strong, loving voice, but unfortunately I can’t afford the luxury of his sympathy and comfort because I know it’s definitely the wrong story to tell him.

  “How did it go?” he wants to know.

  “Good.” I hate to lie to him. “She certainly wasn’t friendly, but I got what I wanted. Tomorrow I see Imogene. I ought to be finished by noon and then right to the airport. I’ll probably make the two-oh-five that gets in at ten something your time.”

  “I’ll pick you up.”

  Normally I’d say don’t bother and mean it, but this time I can’t see him fast enough. “Great. Thanks, love.”

  “I didn’t expect to catch you in so early. I thought you’d probably be having dinner with Sephra.”

  “Oh . . .” And I spin out yet another lie I hate myself for. “They’re away.”

  “What a shame. That’s too bad.” Immediately he’s accepting, believing, doubling my guilt and discomfort. He goes on (much too long, it seems to me) about how disappointed Sephra’s going to be when she finds out I was here. It’s all so suffocating that I can’t wait to get off the phone. I’m embarrassed by my own tacky behavior and by David’s gullibility.

  “David, darling, I’m just trying to write up today’s notes, and I’m exhausted.”

  “Oh, sure . . . right. Don’t let me hold you up.”

  Now I’ve compounded it by insulting him. There’s a second of silence until I come rushing in with an armload of lovin
g affection. “Oh, David, I miss you so much. Damn it, it’s so hard to be away from you for even a day. I wish you were here lying next to me, close—touching.”

  “I miss you too, Jo.” He means it, but it’s guarded.

  The one thing I’m not lying about he doubts. There must be an aura of falseness about me, and he’s picking it up.

  We talk more, and I begin to relax and he responds, and it’s a warm and soothing love we give to each other and it’s true, and by the time we disconnect, the glow is almost as comforting as if we’d been making love.

  I don’t want to lie to David ever—anymore. But I’m in a trap and I can’t get out until I finish this project. Or drop it.

  Chapter Seven

  This time I’m alone in the visitors’ room and apprehensive. The thought of another debacle like yesterday’s keeps me on edge. I’m prepared at all costs to keep my personal feelings safely out of the interview; still, I’m very nervous.

  The matron from yesterday pops her head in for a second, sneers in amusement, and leaves. Annoyed, I look around to see what has bestirred her obviously gothic sense of humor. I see quickly that it is I. In my anxiety I’ve moved my chair so far away from my prospective interviewee that I’m almost in the middle of the room. I correct to a position nearer the screen, but not too near. Of course, I’m jumpy. That woman yesterday was homicidal, a psychopath. And this one is a murderess too. Damn it! Who needs this? David was right. If I hadn’t signed the contracts and taken the money I think I might back out.

  As soon as the beautiful red-haired young woman comes through the door I know I don’t have to worry about this one. She’s about as scary as Marilyn Monroe. In fact, her combination of sexiness and vulnerability reminds me of the dead actress instantly. Any actress. Only an Edith Head could make that same ugly, stiff prison uniform Swat was wearing yesterday cling almost silkily across Imogene’s hips, nip in tight to catch the tiny waist, and then lie open so casually, so offhandedly soft across the beginning swell of her breasts. Her smile is ingenuously sweet and manages somehow to palliate what otherwise might have been a tawdriness in the sexy, low-lidded, long-slitted eyes.