What Tomorrow May Bring

by Tony Bertauski

  The guard let out a low chuckle. “Nothing is ever anyone’s fault it seems. But I guess you’re wrong, huh? Otherwise you wouldn’t be here, Inmate.” He spat out the last word as if disgusted, then uttered a ‘clean this up’ and made his way back to the start of the line.

  The woman, still sobbing, gathered her ruined clothes in her arms and backed away from the machine. Smoke leaked out of it, curling into thin tendrils as it snaked its way toward the ceiling. As the woman walked slowly past me, I could hear her mumbling incoherently under her shuddering breath.

  My fingers twitched at my side. I felt the urge to reach up and stroke her arm, to pat her back as she hurried past, anything. Just like with the old woman the day before. I lifted my hand. Just as I moved to place it on the woman’s shoulder, a series of grumbled curse words escaped her mouth. My hand fell to my side, my mouth slightly agape at the angry words that fell from her lips in a manic rush.

  The woman disappeared into the crowd, a hiccup of a cry echoing behind her.

  I turned back and intently watched my machine, terrified that I would see smoke pouring out. My load still tumbled over and over, flecks of water splashing against the glass door. I refused to pull my eyes off of the machine.

  More and more machines had been breaking down lately. Instead of ordering new ones, a mechanic would occasionally come down and slap the broken machine back together. It always broke again. I heard people muttering about where the replacement money was going, but I didn’t care. All I cared about was that my clothing came out mostly dry and still intact.

  The machine chirped once, then shut itself off. I pulled the door open, relieved to smell the familiar aroma of dried soap. Shoving the clothes into the still damp pillowcase, I threw it over my shoulder and hurried to the stairs. Behind me I could still hear the sobbing of the destitute woman.

  | | |

  The cell was still empty when I got back. Normally my parents were back, casually talking or napping the day away. My father had a job in the mailroom, but it had been decreased to only two days a week. It was strange to see the cell completely empty.

  I dumped out the clothes onto the bottom bunk and loosely folded them, leaving out a clean set of clothing for myself. Even though I had taken a shower that morning, I felt sticky and dirty. Peeling the clothes off that I had been wearing for the last week didn’t help. I wished I could go back and wash them. But we were only allowed two laundry days a week. The clothes would have to wait.

  I shivered as I tugged the clean shirt on over my head. It was still damp, the drying machine obviously petering on its last leg. I silently thanked it for not burning my clothing. The crying of the woman still rang painfully in my head. Pulling on my worn jeans, stiff with dried soap, I wadded my dirty clothes into a tight ball and tucked them onto the bottom shelf.

  Finally feeling clean, or as clean as I could ever feel, I climbed up onto my bunk and pulled out my notebook, flipping to the back. Conversations with varying inmates were stacked in a pile, the pages crumpled from the many times they had been folded and unfolded. I pulled out the most recent page, looking at the careful curves of Orrin’s writing. Whenever he wanted me to pay more attention to something he wrote, he wrote in perfect penmanship. The letters arched and curved at just the right places. My writing next to his was ugly, a foreign language.

  I found the yellow paper from my last visit with Dr. Eriks and carefully tucked it in behind my conversation with Orrin. My eyes grazed the words, still trying to find what seemed wrong with them. Shaking my head, I closed the notebook and sat back against the wall.

  The prison was fully awake now.

  I could hear the nonstop chatter of inmates. The shuffle of worn out shoes. The occasional angry shout. I let my eyes shut, the sounds enveloping me. Someone shouted louder, their voice full of anger. I could hear a body slam into something solid. The gasps of people standing by. Then, right on cue, the heavy thump of boots as the guards ran to join the fight. Inmates shouted, some cheering on the fighters, some scared and trying to get away from the crowd. Then suddenly it fell quiet, everything quieting back to the shuffle and murmur of the usual rhythm.

  This was the music my life consisted of. The beat of the laundry room, the strum of the shuffling feet, the occasional solo of a frenzied fight, always ending with the finale buzz declaring lights out. I had only heard true music a handful of times in my life. It was beautiful. Every note was clear and lacking chaos.

  I longed to hear it more, but in Spokane, only the privileged got any kind of actual music. I didn’t have a job, and my parents rarely worked. This meant we had no points, and no special treatment. The only music I was allowed were the daily songs of the prison walk.

  My mind drifted more.

  I felt my lips vibrating as they hummed an uneven rhythm that swayed and moved with the sounds of the prison. Occasionally a small snatch of one of the unnamed random songs I had heard before mixed in, giving my melody a strange, haunting sound. I let a small smile spread on my lips. It felt good to be alone in the cell. No chattering. No need to check in and make sure my mother was clean or my father awake.

  In my mind I watched as a green field took form. I let myself fall into the daydream. The field was one I had seen many times in my schoolbooks. Rolling hills, green with occasional patches of white flowers. The sky blue with light fluffy clouds floating by. I could hear the songs of the birds in the distance. The lap of unseen water.

  Laying down in the grass, I let the sun bake my soft skin. My clothes were clean, smelling of flowers instead of the usual stink of rank soap and dirty sweat. No one was around. Aside from the crash of the waters and the singing of the birds, I was completely alone. My smile grew wider.

  The sound of someone clearing their throat snapped me from my day-dreaming. Blinking my eyes open, I leaned forward and looked down at the open cell door. Carl GF4 leaned in the opening, his arms folded across his uniform chest, a sly grin smugly spread on his face. From how settled he looked against the door frame, he must have been standing there for longer than I dared to think.

  “Nice humming,” he said, his voice low and smooth.

  I licked my lips, the heated flush of embarrassment racing to my face.

  “What song was it?” he asked, taking a step inside.

  “It was… it was nothing. I didn’t know I was humming.”

  Carl chuckled, his eyes sweeping the cell. “Nice and tidy in here. Good to see.”

  “Uh… thanks.” My mind reeled, wondering why he was here. Wondering, more so, why he was talking to me.

  “I hear you turn eighteen in a few days.” Carl stepped back to lean in the doorway again. “How does it feel?”

  “Feel?”

  “You know. Finally getting away from the crazies.” He swept his eyes around the cell. “Your parents.”

  A sudden flush of anger swelled in my chest. Forcing it down, I licked my lips again and looked away. “I haven’t thought much about it.”

  “Hm,” Carl said, humor hinting his voice. Lifting my eyes, I saw him taking me in. He smiled as my eyes met his, a silent chuckle evident on his lips. “I came to get you. Dr. Eriks says you have a meeting.”

  I knew I didn’t. My meeting wasn’t for another two days. Worried I had noted it wrong, I grabbed my notebook and flipped it open to the page where I jotted my daily schedules.

  “It’s not in there,” he said. “She is changing some of the releasing policies. Guess you are one of the lucky first for her new interviews.”

  “Oh,” I said softly.

  Climbing down from the bunk, I swept my hands over my jeans, flattening out the wrinkles. I walked out of the cell, pushing quickly past Carl. His body remained firm and unmoving.

  “I will escort you,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  Something fluttered angrily in my stomach.

  “No.” Catching myself, I softened my tone. “I go there every week. I know the way. It’s… it’s ok. Thank you for getting me, sir.”r />
  Carl opened his mouth as if ready to say something, then slowly pulled it closed. He was close enough that I could hear the clink of his teeth as they met. He let his eyes flick down me again, then nodded. “Alright, Millie.” His voice came out low, almost seductive. “Have a good day then.”

  Turning, he walked away, occasionally glancing into an open cell as he passed. I watched him a moment, my mouth dry and my stomach nervously flipping. Fog threatened my mind. Blinking madly, I forced it away, then turned and hurried down the hall.

  I didn’t like how Carl had looked at me. Each time his eyes scanned my body, I felt naked and vulnerable. I didn’t like the sly smile that crossed his face, covering whatever thoughts were hidden behind it. This new guard was strange, different from all the others I had known my entire life.

  Guards were paid to watch us. Their job was to keep us in check and to keep order. I had never second-guessed their gazes or questions. For eighteen years, I had never felt my stomach tighten and body jitter the way it did when Carl watched me. I felt as if I should have ducked into my bunk and hid under my blanket like I used to when I was little and a fight broke out in the dark night.

  There was something else.

  Something my mind fought to place as I made my way down the hallways towards Dr. Eriks’ office. I barely noticed when I had to pause to let a guard scan my bracelet, or when I had to skirt around the random groupings of inmates. There was something more than how Carl had looked at me, or how he had taken the time to talk to me, that made me this jumpy and nervous.

  As I rounded the last corner and approached the desk of Dr. Eriks’ secretary, it finally hit me. Guards always addressed us by our cell number. That was all we were to them: inmates. Numbers.

  It wasn’t strange that Carl knew my name. It was printed on all my paperwork, even on my bracelet that I now nervously spun around my wrist. But guards rarely remembered more than our numbered last names. Carl knew my first name. And he had used it without hesitation. That was what sent the shivers racing one after another down my back.

  He had spoken to me like an old friend. As if he knew me.

  And something inside me did not like that. At all.

  5

  The secretary glanced up at me. Her dull hair was pulled into a loose bun, a few stray strands curling around her lean face. Nodding toward a chair, she let her eyes drift back to the old book propped up in front of her on the worn wooden desk.

  I moved toward the chair, letting my weight drag me down onto its cold metal seat. The realization that Carl GF4 had called me by my name really shook me. I couldn’t stop the nauseous twist of my stomach, the shake that had taken over my usually steady hands. Something about me felt invaded. Most things were not private here. We showered together. Ate together. Died together. But few things, like our names, were rarely shared.

  Why did he even bother with knowing mine?

  My thoughts stopped as I saw the door crack open. The secretary glanced up, then lazily said the standard “Dr. Eriks is ready to see you now” before gluing her eyes back to the book in front of her nose.

  Standing, I brushed my jeans smooth again, then moved to push the door open. The room sat dim and cold, as usual. One wall held a wooden bookshelf, full of books I had never been allowed to look at. There was no window. Just a framed painting of dull swirled colors hanging alone on the gray wall. A desk rested against the last wall, everything on it neatly organized in perfect stacks. Even the pens were laid in order, perfectly lined and ready to grab at any needed time.

  Dr. Eriks sat in her usual chair, her legs neatly crossed. Her hair was in a perfect bun as always, her glasses perched carefully on her nose. I could see the lines spraying out around her pursed lips from across the room.

  There were three chairs lined up in front of her. To my shock, I saw the backs of two other people sitting nervously in the chairs. As I stepped closer, I felt my breath catch in my throat. I knew the balding patch on the back of the man’s head. The messy, unwashed mane of hair on the fidgeting woman.

  Snapping my eyes up to Dr. Eriks, I let my voice shoot out, more forceful than I had ever let it be in this office. “What are my parent’s doing here?” I demanded.

  Dr. Eriks barely reacted to my question. Motioning one hand toward the empty chair, she said evenly, “Have a seat, Millie.”

  I sat down, looking over at my parents. They both sat with their hands clenched tightly in their laps. I could see my mother’s leg shaking. My father kept his eyes glued to his worn sneakers. Looking up, my mother offered me a weak smile.

  “As you can see, Millie, we are changing some procedures. We have found that,” Dr. Eriks paused to clear her throat, “that those born in the incarcerated world, have an unusually harder time adjusting to true life. I am attempting to weed out those issues. We want you to be an asset to the Nation. You are the good, the strong.”

  I silently recited the last sentence with her. Dr. Eriks repeated it often to me I had memorized it. Nodding slightly, I felt my eyes fasten themselves to the lines around her mouth.

  “Part of the change is doing one of your last sessions with the parental units present. I would like to better know your relationship with them. Ask them some questions. I need to observe items that, well, I was never able to get you to open up about before. We need to be fully honest to make our Nation strong, Millie.” Dr. Eriks settled back in her seat, opening the notepad and setting it neatly on her lap. “Shall we begin?”

  I nodded.

  “Millie, have you been keeping up your journal?”

  I thought back to the pages still to be written in. The moments that my pencil froze as it hit paper. I hadn’t written a word in the journal for months now, aside from my daily schedules. I was about to admit to that, when the image of the small stack of fishing papers appeared in my head.

  “I have,” I said.

  Dr. Eriks watched me a moment, then forced a small nod. “Very good. It is important to never keep your issues locked inside. Unaddressed problems can lead to undesired outcomes. Isn’t that right, Leann?”

  The sound of my mother’s name shocked me. I had rarely heard her first name used. Even my father addressed her simply as ‘Mom.’ Letting my eyes trail over to her now, I could see her nodding.

  “Tell me, Millie, are you looking forward to your release?” Dr. Eriks asked.

  My tongue suddenly felt thick and dry. “I… I don’t know.”

  “Why are you unsure?”

  The words of my journal entry appeared in my mind. I had read them over and over, trying to find what was wrong. Trying to find what I was afraid to admit. The words seemed to slow, allowing me finally to see what they were actually saying.

  And I dread it with every fiber in my body.

  I looked over at my huddled parents, then in a weak voice answered, “There will be no one left to take care of my parents.” I could feel the choke of a sob softly escape my mother’s lips. “If I am not here −”

  “The Nation takes care of all of its convicts, Millie.” Dr. Eriks voice cut into me.

  “I know. But… my parents… they need me. For all the small things, you know? I just, I don’t know, I just don’t want them to…”

  I didn’t add the other reason. The fear that I knew nothing outside these walls. I had learned the history, I knew the laws. I knew the prison rules. Outside these walls though, I didn’t know that life. I didn’t know its rules.

  Dr. Eriks leaned back, locking her fingers together in front of her almost flat chest. I felt my voice trail out as I watched her. A strange expression crossed her face. It almost seemed… smug.

  “Leann,” she said, her voice clipped and clear, “I think it is time you tell your daughter why you are here.”

  My heart felt as if it had stopped. I had never been able to bring myself to ask my parents what crime had sentenced them to life in Spokane. Every time I let the question form on my lips, I found myself fearing I would hate them after the truth was finall
y told. That I would see the true monsters they were, the true criminals who deserved this punishment. I knew my parents were odd. But in my own strange way, I did love them. Would that love leave once I knew the truth?

  My mother nodded again, then in a soft voice, barely audible, started. “There were three men. I didn’t like them. So, I jumped them. Knocked one out. The second I stabbed with a knife. Over. And over.” My mother’s eyes were glued to her shaking hands. “It… it felt so good. Over. And over.”

  I could hear the crack in her voice. She paused a moment, then went on. “I couldn’t stop stabbing. I wanted to keep stabbing.”

  “And the third man?” Dr. Eriks asked, her voice cool and expecting.

  My mother glanced at my father, then looked back to her hands. “The third man… the third died. Your father killed him. With his hands.”

  She started to rock back and forth, muttering unknown words under her breath. I couldn’t breathe. The words sat on the surface, trying hard to sink in as I battled to fight them away. I let my dry eyes trail over to my father. I searched his face for some hint of denial. There was only pain. A tear trailed down his unshaved face.

  Dr. Eriks bore her dull eyes into my mother, the hint of a satisfied grin on her tight face. “And do you regret it at all, Leann? Would you take it back?”

  My mother shook her head, her hands shaking in her lap. Though her body shook, her voice came out firm and angry. “No.”

  I took a deep breath, trying to steady the shake that started to grow inside. Dr. Eriks had always taught me that I needed to be the good and the strong. The Nation needed me. Criminals were what destroyed it, criminals like my parents, and it needed the good to make it strong once again.

  At that moment, I didn’t feel strong at all.

  My mother’s words still repeated over and over in my mind. I didn’t want to believe them. I couldn’t see my gentle mother stabbing a man until he was dead. I couldn’t let myself accept that she enjoyed it. I couldn’t picture my shadow of a father strangling a man with his own hands. But now, as I let my eyes settle on my parents, that was the only picture that formed in my racing mind. My parents were gone.