What Tomorrow May Bring

by Tony Bertauski

  I heard the clink of the door unlocking. Sitting up, I turned and watched as the door slid all the way open. Light from a flashlight flooded the cell.

  “Millicent 942B?”

  I nodded, feeling the bright flashlight flood my face.

  “It is ten minutes until midnight. Midnight marks the start of your eighteenth birthday. You have been cleared for release. Please gather your belongings and come with us.” I squinted, barely making out the silhouette of the deep-voiced guard. He tapped his foot.

  I had thought I would leave when the lights came on. I had always assumed I would get one last glimpse of the prison waking up before I escaped to my freedom. But here they were, whisking me away in the dead of the night. I climbed down, pulling my notebook with me. As I reached up to grab my blanket and pillow, the hand of the officer firmly stopped me.

  “Those are prison property, 942B.”

  “But, they have been mine since −”

  “Those items are prison property,” he repeated. Motioning behind him, another officer stepped forward. The second officer stepped held out a small canvas bag. The first officer turned back to me as he grabbed the bag from his comrade and put it in my hands.

  “You are to only gather your clothing and personal items.” He watched me a moment as I stared dumbly at him. In exasperation, he tapped his wrist, his short nail clicking on his metal watch.

  I spun and faced our small shelf. Pulling open the bag, I shoved my small pile of clothes inside. I glanced over my shoulder at the guards standing behind me. They were barely watching, their eyes tired and bored. Shielding my hands from their view, I tucked the sea glass into a sock then shoved it into the bag. Though it was not against the rules to have this small present, I felt a strange urge to keep it a secret. I wanted it to be only mine. For it to be all to myself. I stuff the remaining sock on top, then pushed my thinned notebook into the bag and cinched it shut.

  That was all I had.

  A small bundle of clothing, a piece of sea glass, and the notebook. I slipped the bag over my shoulder then turned to face the waiting officers.

  “Would you like a moment to say goodbye?” he asked, motioning to my sleeping parents.

  I looked down at them. My father’s breathing was uneven, his eyes quivering slightly. I knew he was awake. “No,” I said simply.

  “Very well,” the officer said. He moved out of the cell, motioning for me to follow. I tore my eyes away from my parents. As I walked out of the cell, I heard my father softly hush my mother. I didn’t look back. As soon as I stepped out in the dark walkway the cell door slid back closed behind me, locking shut.

  I followed the officers down the walk, out into the Commons, and finally down a dark hallway. We paused at a sealed door long enough for them to scan my metal bracelet, then each of their badges. The door slid open, and we passed through before it locked itself back closed.

  The first officer clicked off his flashlight. The room we had stepped into was bright. The lights hurt my eyes. As I adjusted to the new lighting, I took in the room. The walls were painted white, framed images and flyers hanging neatly on their clean surface.

  We walked through the strange white room quickly and passed through another door. This time there were more chairs, a small television set in one corner. Its screen glowed blue, still waiting to be turned off for the night. I could see magazines scattered across the surface of the many side tables.

  The officers made me sit as they walked over to a desk and started to type on a buzzing computer. I gripped the bag in my hands, trying to calm the strange nervous shaking that kept crawling up my legs and into my hands.

  A sign hanging on the wall across from me caught my attention.

  Visiting hours: 9 AM to 7 PM

  Please leave all personal belongings

  in the provided lockers.

  Photo ID required.

  No items may be passed to inmates.

  All visits are monitored and recorded.

  This was a waiting room. A waiting room for visits.

  No one inside had ever mentioned receiving visitors. I had always assumed that once you were locked away, that was it. The world disappeared from you. And you from it. I couldn’t pull my eyes off of the sign. It seemed odd to me, that this waiting room still sat here. It was empty, the magazines looking brand new, the layer of dust hiding on top of the TV a sign that it this room was rarely used.

  “942B, come with us.”

  I stood numbly, following the voice. The two officers were holding open a door across the room. The door opened to a glassed-in room, a white bench screwed along all four walls the only thing inside.

  “You will wait in here until discharge.”

  “In here?” I asked, shocked. The lights were blazing bright, the benches solid wood. I knew I stood no chance of sleeping tonight.

  The officer tightened his lips, obviously not wanting to repeat himself. I moved past him, avoiding eye contact as I entered the glassed-in room. Sitting down, I let the bag rest on the ground by my feet. The officer watched me until I had settled, then shut the door. I could hear the click of the lock as it sealed me in.

  I waited.

  Occasionally I could see an officer walk past. No one paused to check in on me. I would see their eyes flit to look in my direction, then quickly look away as they continued their uninterrupted walk. I felt invisible. Forgotten. My butt hurt and my back was stiff from leaning against the low wall. I could feel my eyes burning.

  Hours passed. I could feel time ticking away.

  My head finally drooped, my eyes too heavy to stay open any longer. In the darkness behind my closed eyelids I could see my father, his hand bleeding, his eyes lowered. He went to work, lining up along the other assembly line workers. Nobody seemed to notice the blood dripping from his hand as he set to work, silently clicking sharp metal sheets together into something I couldn’t recognize. I tried to see what he was making, but could only see the gash on his hand, blood dripping in a stream like a dying waterfall.

  My father disappeared. In his place stood my mother. She was frozen. Alone. The room she stood in was empty, no windows, not even a door. I could see her face, still as stone. Only her eyes moved. They darted back and forth, searching every corner in sheer fright. Then I finally saw it. Her arms were bound tightly around her, her legs tied tight together. She couldn’t move if she wanted.

  I thought about stepping forward to help her. Just as my hand reached out, she started to scream. Her body thrashed in seizure-like jerks, her lips distorted and twisted. Spit flew from her mouth as she bared her teeth, her eyes manic. I didn’t know this woman. She was a wild animal. I backed against the solid wall, trying to get away from her as her scream died into a low chuckle.

  Just as fast as her attack started, it ended. She went back to her frozen stance, twigs and dirt falling from her hair, her lips slightly quivering as she whispered over and over, “My baby. My baby.”

  Everything went dark. Through my lids, I could see the faint glow of the white room that surrounded me. But here, hidden behind my closed eyelids, it was dark. I sighed a breath of relief, my head nodding down slightly as I welcomed the solitude.

  Then I saw his face. It slowly appeared in the dark, barely visible. Shards of light hit his cheekbones, his furrowed brow, his straight nose. As he moved forward, my breath froze in my screaming lungs. His grin spread menacingly on his hungry face.

  I snapped my eyes open. Gasping in a painful breath, I looked up to the ceiling. My heart beat hard in my chest, threatening to burst out. Breathing in deep again, I felt it finally slow. I was exhausted. But the need for sleep had been chased away by the fear of my dreams.

  Lowering my eyes, I saw I wasn’t alone in the room any more. A woman sat across from me, her hands cuffed tightly behind her back. The reek of beer stained her dirty clothing. Her hair was long and blonde, muddy at the tips with something dark. I watched her, her eyes glazed as she stared past me into the window behind my back. />
  “In or out?”

  The sound of her slightly slurred voice jarred me. “What?” I asked.

  “Going in or coming out?” she asked, her glazed eyes focusing onto me.

  “Oh, uh, going out.”

  She scanned me with her eyes, a small hiccup escaping her chapped lips. “First release, huh?”

  “How did you know?”

  She laughed, her arms struggling a moment against the metal cuffs. “You scream it, hon. Just you wait. Prison Nation will chew you up and spit you right back out. It don’t care.”

  That was the second time I had heard it called Prison Nation in the last day. It was a name I had never heard before. Everyone always reverently, respectfully called it The Nation. It was the great Nation. The good, the strong. This new name made no sense to me.

  “Why did you call it that?” I asked. I stopped myself, surprised that I had asked this woman, who I had never met before, a question like that. Biting my lip, I nervously watched her.

  “You kidding me?” She scanned me again, her lips curling in humor. “Well, ‘course you ain’t. You don’t know. You’re a Jail Baby huh? Born and raised in this great institution. Proud of this Nation with its correcting, righteous ways.” She let out a rough laugh, the end of it breaking into a cough. “Let me tell you something, hon. Whether you are in these walls, or out of them, you are still in this prison. Get it? They got you. They got all of us. And we ain’t going nowhere.”

  The woman let out a chuckle, low and angry. Something else hinted it though. Something light, barely there. As the angry chuckle died out, I could hear the hint of desperation on every breath she gasped in.

  I watched her. She squirmed in her seat, her head lolling back a moment. I didn’t know if I could believe a single word she was saying. It was obvious she was under more influence than just the alcohol whose stink had infiltrated the once clean air in this room. Her body was too skinny, bones sticking out where her bulky coat and baggy jeans didn’t cover. She began to shake.

  In a soft voice, distant as if talking to someone long gone, the woman whispered, “At least in here I can sleep.”

  The door swung open.

  “942B.” A new officer, a woman this time, stood at the door. Her bulky body fit tightly into her uniform, showing off her pudgy rolls. I stood up, grabbing my pack in a shaky hand. “Come on then.” She glanced over at the handcuffed woman, then ushered me out and slammed the door. I could hear the woman chuckle lightly as the door clicked shut.

  The officer led me to a new room, filled only with a bench and a small desk. A woman sat behind the desk, her clothing neatly pressed and clean. I took in her deep purple shirt, squirming in my own worn white t-shirt. It seemed to scratch me even more, reminding me that it would never be as smooth or soft as that woman’s top. The officer led me to the bench, motioning for me to sit.

  The woman at the desk looked up and offered me a small smile. “First off, let me congratulate you on your coming release into our great Nation.” She glanced again at the screen of the computer that sat on her desk. “Millicent.Quite a name. Is there a story behind it?”

  No one ever called me Millicent except when they looked at my paper work. I hated that name. It felt ugly on my tongue. I had no idea why my mother chose that name, but in the last few days I had come to realize she probably didn’t have any reason. She didn’t need one.

  “My mother is crazy. She probably was told she needed a name and picked the first lame one that came to mind.” I bit my lip. I didn’t know why I kept saying things like that. I never had before. Looking at the woman, I saw her chuckle to herself.

  “I’m a name buff myself. Every name has a meaning, did you know that?” She smiled at me. I could feel the tension as she tried to keep up the casual conversation. “Your name means ‘mild strength.’ Maybe your mother was trying to bless you.”

  I shrugged. I suddenly just wanted this woman in the deep purple shirt to stop trying. “Yeah. Maybe.” I muttered.

  The woman cleared her throat, glancing down at my paperwork. When she looked back up, I could see the attempted warmth had fizzled in her eyes. “Do you prefer Millicent or Millie?” she carefully asked.

  “Millie,” I answered softly.

  “Very well. Your official ID will now read Millie 942B.” A machine buzzed behind her. Something heavy dropped into a small tray. Without looking, she reached behind her and picked it up. Holding it out, she waited for the guard to come grab it from her. The guard looked at it a moment, then handed it to me.

  It was small plastic card, my black and white photo printed on its surface. My face stared blankly back at me. Next to my photo was my name, printed in plain block letters. Under that was my birthday, eye color, and height. The only other thing on the card was a barcode.

  The woman was typing. I could hear her fingers picking out the letters quickly, obviously well practiced at whatever she was doing. As she typed, she casually spoke to me. “That is your ID. Do not lose it. If you do, you will be charged for a reprint. You must have it on you at all times. You will not be paid if you do not have it. You cannot purchase food or other items if you do not have it.” She stopped a moment and smiled at me. “So don’t lose it, okay?”

  I nodded.

  Something in her smile made me want to apologize for my brashness before. I couldn’t form the words. Instead, I just watched her.

  The woman glanced at the computer screen. “According to your records, you have enough points for a total of two hundred dollars, after we have deducted your discharge fees. Would you like that in credit or cash?”

  I had never held money in my life. I had heard others talk about it, but in prison, currency wasn’t needed. Out of sheer curiosity, I answered, “Cash, please.”

  “Very well,” she said. She nodded to the officer, who disappeared out the door. A moment later she returned, carrying an envelope and a small box. Handing the two items to me, she backed away again to her silent post.

  “Inside the envelope is your cash,” the woman continued, still typing. “The box contains one extra change of clothes, a razor, a bar of soap, a towel, and one box of sanitary napkins.” I peeked inside the box while she spoke, pushing around the contents. The envelope sat fat in my hand. I felt myself strangely afraid to lose it and gripped my fingers tighter around its thin paper. Maybe I should have asked for it in credit.

  “Do you have any questions?”

  I shook my head.

  “Very good.” The woman looked at the screen again. “You have been assigned your probationary job. The Nation looks forward to your steady and loyal work. Your employer is waiting outside to pick you up and bring you to your new residence until your probationary month is over.” Leaning back, she looked at me again. Her eyes flitted down to the metal bracelet on my wrist. “The ID bracelet will remain on until the month is over. If there are no more questions, then this is it.” The woman stood, flattening her black pencil skirt against her toned legs. She smiled and held out a hand.

  I stood, slinging the pack over my shoulder and tucking the envelope and box under one arm. I took a step toward her, my hand shaking as I held it out to her. She firmly gripped it a moment, watching me before offering one last warm smile. “Welcome to the Nation, citizen.”

  The officer placed a hand on my back, softly pushing me toward the door at the other end of the room. My feet stumbled underneath me as I made my way over to it. The officer pulled the small hand held device out of her pocket, scanned my wrist, and waited for the beep. As soon as the small beep sounded, she swiped a card across a panel near the door.

  The door buzzed once, then swung open.

  Sunlight spilled in, crisp with the fresh morning air. I squinted as we stepped out, taking in the pale blue sky dotted with drifting white clouds. In front of me stretched a parking lot. No razor wire topped fences. No guards patrolling. Just a normal parking lot with a few scattered cars resting in the morning light.

  The guard walked me aroun
d the corner. Beds of neatly trimmed flowers lined the walk, their buds opening with dew. I could almost taste the dew on my tongue, full of the morning sun. We walked until we got to a small covered area. The guard stopped, motioning to someone in the distance.

  I could hear the rumble of an engine. Looking around, I saw an old truck making its way toward us. Its paint was chipped, rust splattered across its once bright yellow surface. I could see a large dent on one side, bending the metal in at a strange, striking angle.

  The truck pulled in under the covered waiting area. Without a word, the officer pulled open the passenger door, nodding once at me. I tightened my grip on my small bag and took a step forward. Still squinting from the bright light, I looked into the cab.

  There, sitting behind the wheel, fist held tightly to lips, was Oscar Ramos.

  12

  I had never been in a vehicle before. My fingers gripped the worn handle on the door, nails digging into the soft plastic. My whole body bounced up and down as the truck pulled out of the lot and onto the worn road beyond.

  The outside world was amazing. I had stood outside before, as near to the fence as I dared. I would stand and look at the world outside the fence, trying to forget the men up on the walks who always watched with guns held tight, making sure I didn’t attempt an escape. Beyond the prison’s fence, there was nothing else. Just a rolling expanse of tall grass. It would sway in the light breeze, always dried and crisp in the ever heated air. For miles I could see the waves of grass, only interrupted occasionally by a lone, shriveled tree.

  As we drove down the road, the grass rising on either side, I felt sick. I turned my head, looking out the dusty window to my right. The prison was huge. I had always known it was large, but seeing it now from the outside took my breath away. It stretched away on either side, disappearing with the grass into the horizon. Spokane had no beginning, and no end.