by Lexie Ray
But now, with a clear head and me in prison, I could honestly say that I wasn’t doing anybody any good except for myself.
“I did use those girls for money,” I said, staring at the faces of the inmates in the crowd. “I did everything the prosecutors in my trial said I did. I knew I was doing wrong, but alcohol helped me ignore it. It convinced me that there were merits to my madness, and I listened. The bottle was all I would listen to. I’m trying so hard to move through the twelve steps, but there’s one that scares me so badly that I don’t think I can do it. I’ve wronged so many people that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to make amends to all of them. I don’t know their names. I don’t know their numbers. And I don’t know how many there could have been. Over the years? Hundreds, probably.”
Karla raised her hand, standing off to the side, and I nodded at her.
“It’s always important to make an effort at making amends,” she said. “Whether the people we speak to forgive or accept us or not, it helps us to forgive and accept ourselves.”
I took that knowledge to heart. I started writing down names of those I could remember, writing down descriptions and possible ages when I couldn’t. Maybe I could get a hold of my lawyer and see if he could help put me in contact with some of them. There had to be a list somewhere, especially since the court had paid out the nightclub’s profits to those girls.
I had feasible goals in mind, and that helped fill my time in prison. I racked my brain thinking of those girls, knowing that once I contacted all of them, I’d be able to rest a little bit easier as well as start the healing process. It was good to have an end game, to have missions like this occupy my mind. It gave me more purpose than even the commissary. I’d started even thinking about getting a second associate degree. All I had was time—I might as well push my education to the next level.
One big blessing was talking to Jules. No matter what time of the day I called her, she was always available to talk. I suspected that there were a couple of times that I caught her at work, but she never let on. She always sounded like she was smiling while she was talking to me.
“Hey, Mama,” she’d always exclaim after the call got put through. “What’s new with you?”
And I’d tell her everything. I had Marlee and Desiree and a slew of other girls to talk about in prison, but having someone on the outside was really special. Jules always seemed interested in whatever I had to say—whether it was a new product in the commissary or a meal that Marlee made exceptional with an unexpected ingredient. I told her all the gossip I could get my hands on, talked about the progress I’d been making in AA, and explained things I’d been learning through my college courses.
In turn, Jules offered up bits of information about her life and the life she shared with my son. Jules was a first-grade teacher at a private school near their house. She loved work, she only wished she didn’t have to miss so much of it. She’d been sick lately, and doctors were trying to figure out what was going on. The symptoms always seemed to change. As soon as she was treated for one of them, another emerged. The latest theory was that she was suffering panic attacks, so she was on some new kind of medications that left her feeling a little strange.
“I felt well enough one day to go grocery shopping, so I hopped in the car,” Jules said, telling me the story during one of our conversations. “I didn’t want to waste a good day cooped up at home, so I popped the new medication my doctor had given me and left without giving it a second thought.
“Well. As soon as I started walking the aisles, pushing my shopping cart, I started feeling really weird. The aisles seemed to heave in and out, and I got the strange impression that I was in the belly of some monster trying to salvage food from what it had already eaten. I thought I was going insane! I knew I wasn’t actually inside a monster, but I felt like it was a strong possibility. I was tiptoeing around the aisles as quietly as I could, but I couldn’t push the cart straight to save my life. I nearly ran a little boy over, knocked over a display, and constantly clipped corners.
“I walked through the whole grocery store without putting a single item in my shopping cart because I was so scared of attracting the monster’s attention. I had to Marshall to come pick me up. We realized that it was the pills that had caused it, and that pretty much eliminated the anxiety attack diagnosis.”
Marshall was a caseworker with Child Protective Services. My heart clenched a little bit when Jules first told me that, though she only mentioned it in passing. After each of our conversations, I learned more and more about it. My son was given several different cases, and it was his responsibility to visit the families in question and help the agency in making a decision as to the children’s welfare.
“He’s good at what he does,” Jules told me. “They’ve been dying to promote him, but he refuses. He wants to stay where he is because it allows him to work one-on-one with families. He really thrives on it.”
I was glad he had a passion, but I couldn’t help feeling guilty that it was my neglect from the beginning of his life that had driven him to his current career. He was out there working to ensure that no children under his watch suffered like he did. It made me proud of him, but it made me disgusted with myself. If only there was a such thing as a time machine. I could go back and do every single thing different.
They made a comfortable living, the two of them, and they both loved working with children.
“Why don’t you have any of your own?” I asked one time after Jules had told me a funny story involving one of her second-graders, vomit, and a backpack. “You all seem to really enjoy being around them.”
Jules hesitated, and I winced. “I’m sorry, sugar,” I said quickly. “That was a personal question. Forget I asked.”
“No, I don’t mind,” she said. “We haven’t had any because it’s just not the right time. We both stay busy with our careers and child care would be a nightmare at this point. We’ve been talking about it a little, and we’ll get something figured out.”
I opened my mouth, ready to say that she shouldn’t be ridiculous—I could watch their baby, but snapped it shut again. Whenever I was talking to Jules, it was easy to forget that I was in prison. She made the hours fly by, and I always looked forward to our conversations.
“If you ever really wanted to, you and Marshall could come to the prison,” I said one day. By then, I had served three years of my sentence. It seemed like a million years had passed on some days, but on others, it seemed like just yesterday when I was introduced to Willow, my first cellmate. I was lucky to have a cellmate like Marlee. She’d saved my life.
“We have visiting hours every weekend,” I continued, oblivious to the silence on the other end of the line. “I’ve never seen it, but all the girls say that their husbands or boyfriends will visit, or their parents. A few of them have young children, and I think that’s a little sad. Still, it’d be nice to see you two.”
“I wish we could,” Jules said finally, “but I don’t really think Marshall would be for it. He looked at our phone bill the other day. I’m always the one to take care of the bills, so I don’t even know why he looked, but he was really curious about all the calls from the prison I’d been receiving. When I told him I was talking to you…well, he wasn’t very happy.”
I frowned and leaned up against the phone bank, watching my fellow inmates pass by, going to whatever activity they had scheduled. It wasn’t much of a surprise that my son didn’t like his wife talking to me. He’d been downright furious the time I’d called after Jules had sent the wedding invitation. What did trouble me was that he was still so angry. Had no time passed at all for him? Didn’t time heal all wounds?
“Well, sugar,” I said briskly, trying to shake myself out of the realization. “You could always come visit me by yourself, if you don’t think Marshall would come.”
She hesitated again. “I can’t sneak around like that, Mama,” she said sadly. It was one of only a handful of times she’d sounded anything but ch
ipper and upbeat on the phone. “He’d never tell me he was okay with it. He’d probably try to get me to swear not to go. And I’d end up trying to keep a secret from him. I’m a terrible liar, Mama.”
“It’s terrible to be a wonderful liar,” I countered. “Forget I said anything about it. I don’t want to cause any problems with your marriage.”
“I really enjoy our talks, though,” Jules said. “They really help me puzzle things out.”
There were a few times that she was frustrated with Marshall. I couldn’t tell her anything about my son that she didn’t already know. It was a little bit disconcerting that she knew him better than I did, but I tried not to let it bother me. And I certainly couldn’t give her any tips on marriage. I’d never tied the knot. But I did know a thing or two about men and how to cajole, encourage, and push them.
“You don’t have to lie to me, sugar,” I laughed. “I know I’m probably a bother, calling you all the time.”
“I’m not lying,” Jules protested. “You’d be able to tell, remember? I’m a terrible liar. I just—stop me if this sounds weird—you remind me of all the times I chatted with my mom on the phone. I miss that a lot. I missed having someone to go to with my problems, or just someone to chat with about little things. That’s why I like talking to you, Mama. It’s like you’re my Mama.”
I had to cough to hide a hiccupping breath, and discreetly wiped a tear from my cheek. Somebody thought enough of me to consider me their Mama. That’s all I’d ever wanted in life. Now, if only I could convince my son that I was better than I had been, able to love him like I hadn’t before. It seemed like that was as far away as my release date, or working my way through the list of girls who had lived at the nightclub as I made my amends.
“Thank you, sugar,” I was finally able to manage, though my voice was still a little shaky. “That’s sweet of you to say. Marshall isn’t too upset that I’m calling you, is he? I don’t want to sew any seeds of discord.”
“He can get over it,” she said sassily. “I’m not giving this up for anything.”
I laughed. “Will you—will you put in a good word for me? Tell him I said hello?”
“Of course I will, Mama,” Jules said. “Don’t you worry about that.”
I wasn’t worried. I felt like I was in good hands with Jules around.
Chapter Six
Time was a funny thing. I had too much of it. I didn’t have enough of it. It passed too slowly. It passed too quickly. There were some days when I felt like I’d come such a long way from where I first started, a criminal fueled by booze and greed. Other days, I felt like there was far too long to go until I got to where I wanted to be.
I spent my time working at the commissary, taking college classes that interested me, and going to AA meetings. Pitt had offered to switch me to the kitchen, if I was getting bored in the commissary. I politely declined, saying that Cheryl needed me in the commissary more than Marlee needed me in the kitchen. I was flattered, though, knowing that Pitt recommending me to the kitchen staff meant that I was trustworthy. That was something I’d earned.
In my free time, I called Jules or worked my way down my amends.
I was somehow able to get in contact with my lawyer from the trial, which was somewhat of a miracle since I’d never actually known his name. He declined to give me the list of girls who’d received restitution following the trial, saying that it could be viewed as me trying to get even with them.
That was the furthest from my mind, but I didn’t argue. I’d just have to find another way.
Jules ended up being my other way, always sympathetic when I talked about how nervous I was about making amends. Neither of us had to acknowledge that Marshall was probably the biggest person on my list. It was the elephant in the room—or the telephone, rather.
“I really want to start calling girls,” I was telling Jules one afternoon. “The more I think about it, the more nervous I get. I wish there was a way to find their names and numbers. It would make me feel better.”
“I can try to help,” she volunteered.
“Really?”
“Of course,” she said. “You need the numbers so you can make amends. You need to make amends so you can continue with the twelve steps. It makes sense that you’re frustrated. What can I do?”
“I’m having trouble remembering girls’ names,” I said. “We all went by nicknames there. Is there any way that you might be able to search for articles about the trial? Maybe there could’ve been interviews or transcripts of testimony. If I’m able to talk to one girl, she might know the names of others. Then, it would be a matter of figuring out their numbers.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Jules said. “I’ll have them by this time tomorrow.”
Jules was always so ready to help that I wondered whether she had a life of her own. She didn’t seem to mind devoting her time to help me.
Next week, as promised, Jules had a name and a number for me. I wrote it down carefully, making sure each number was clear, and thanked Jules profusely. It was time. I could start making amends.
I dialed the number carefully and waited as the phone rang.
“Hello?” the woman’s voice said, sounding suspicious. I wished that the message that an inmate was calling would just go away sometimes.
“Hello, is this Frankie?” I asked, looking at the name I’d written down. “Frankie who used to go by the name of Daisy?”
“Yes, who’s this?”
“Daisy, this is Mama.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line.
“No it isn’t,” she said. “This is a joke.”
“I wish it were, sugar,” I said. “Let me know if you know the punch line.”
“Why are you calling me?” she asked. “Is this about me testifying?”
“No, doll,” I said, wishing I could reach through the phone and soothe the trembling in her voice away. I hated that I was this terrifying to my former girls.
“Then what’s this about?”
“Well, I’m in prison,” I said, “though that’s stating the obvious.”
“Yeah.”
“And since I’ve been here, I’ve had some revelations about myself,” I continued. “They give you all kinds of time to think in prison.”
Daisy giggled before she remembered that she was talking to me.
“I realized that I’m an alcoholic, for one,” I said.
“Duh,” she said. “That’s also stating the obvious.”
That wounded me, but it was also fascinating. How had my dependency been so clear to other people and not clear at all to me? I thought that I handled myself just fine around the bottle. It was becoming obvious to me that other people didn’t share the same opinion.
“I’m working through the twelve steps right now,” I said. “Have you ever heard of AA?”
“Yeah,” she said. “My dad did it when I was little. Didn’t stick too well with him, but good luck.”
“Thanks. Part of the twelve steps are going through and making amends to people I hurt while I was drinking. I know that I hurt you overall by having the nightclub and bending you girls to my will. Have I ever hurt you personally?”
“Not me personally,” Daisy said. “You mostly just scared the shit out of me, and I tried to stay away. Toward the end, we all did. We holed up in the boarding house and only came out to work.”
Those last few months were a blur to me. I couldn’t remember hardly anything except for the cops hauling my ass out of there.
“I just wanted to apologize,” I said. “I’m sincerely sorry, Daisy, for everything that I did and didn’t do. Do you think you could find it in yourself to forgive me?”
“Sure,” she said. “The payout was pretty awesome. I’m starting life all over again.”
“Do you have any of the other girls’ numbers?” I asked. “I’d like to talk to all of them personally. It’s a part of the twelve steps process.”
“I have a few,” she said. “W
e stuck together after the raid until we started finding jobs and apartments.” She rattled off a few names and numbers for me, and I hurried to get them all written down.
“What are you doing?” I asked, interested.
“Nude modeling, for an art school,” she said happily. “That is, until I get my Playboy spread.”
“Is that in the works?”
“Not yet,” she said dreamily. “But they’ll find me. I know I’ll be discovered.”
“I wish you all the best, Daisy,” I said sincerely. “I really do.”
“I’ll send you a Playboy in prison when I’m on the cover,” she promised.
“I think it’d be confiscated as contraband,” I admitted.
“Bummer. I’ll save you a copy, then.”
“You do that, sugar.”
“Bye, I guess.”
“Bye.”
When I hung up the phone, it was like my heart grew wings. I felt like dancing, like laughing, like crying, like making love, like hugging someone, like jumping up and down and cheering. I’d made my first amend. I’d made my first amend and it felt great. I felt lighter, joyful, and excited.
I knew that I had a long road in front of me—hunting down the hundreds of girls I’d managed throughout the years, but I had years to do it. I made it a point to make one amend every week.
None of them were as easy as Daisy, but I knew I couldn’t expect that. A lot of girls simply hung up as soon as they heard the prison announcement. Still others cussed me out, their knowledge of dirty words impressive. And others wept quietly, told me that I ruined their lives, and made me feel like shit for the rest of the week.
