As his eyes focused, he noticed that the emergency lights in the hallway were a little brighter than he had first thought, and as he focused his eyes on the distant light coming through the third door there was a slight modulation in the light and Clay thought to himself that the lights overhead had blinked, but then he stood and watched the modulation and suddenly became aware of a slight electrical hum coming from a light overhead.
Some faces appeared in the window in the distance. They had been there before, but he hadn’t seen them in the light. Now, as his senses returned, they came into focus and he could see, but not hear, that they were shouting and beckoning to him. His heart jumped. He felt the cold of the floor on his feet. He could not read their lips or hear their shouts, but he could see that a few of the faces seemed to be red from crying. Their hands were clawing at the window in exactly the same way that he had cried out and clawed at the window outside the facility only moments ago. This connection, though unidentified in his conscious mind, tore at his heart and soul. He blinked in incomprehension.
The people behind the glass motioned to him, and in his short-term memory he heard, conformed to the movements of their lips, his own voice screaming out for someone to hear him and save him. But, in reality, he could not hear the voices at all. He thought of the face staring out at him through the glass, and wondered if that is the way he had looked, pawing and beating on the glass to be let in. The juxtaposition of the wild gesticulations of the faces and the utter silence of the hallway was jarring, and his thoughts remained jumbled and confused.
Whoever was locked up in that distant room was motioning to him, and as he focused his eyes again a sign was held up, written crudely on paper. Clay narrowed his eyes to try to read it, and his squint blocked some of the light, but the light from behind the faces shone through the paper and he could make out some letters. It was only, maybe, forty feet to the end of the corridor, but it was through windows crisscrossed with chicken wire and his brain was still fuzzy as he struggled to solve the puzzle.
Focusing his eyes intently the chicken wire disappeared and he noticed that the sign was written in Russian. Russian again? He felt his knees buckle slightly and his head grew light and, shaking his head at the faces he motioned helplessly and wondered if this was another of his recent delusions. Sorry. I don’t read Russian, he pantomimed. He tried to communicate with his eyes, but that didn’t work any better. I’m just a man on a walk… a beautiful walk out of the prison of my old life.
Different faces appeared in the window and also made wild pleadings for help. He blinked and Cheryl appeared in his memory and was transported to the other side of the glass. He was jolted for a second, then shrugged. “Sorry, Cheryl,” he gasped, surprising even himself at the words. I can’t help you.
****
Try to warm up, Clay said to himself, and began to pace back and forth down the short hallway, stepping back into his cell after a moment to sit on the bed again. Todd had told him not to snoop around. He suddenly wondered whether there might be cameras watching him, and he did his best to appear unconcerned about the faces he’d just seen down the hallway. This wasn’t, in the end, all that difficult. He did not want to encourage anyone who might be looking to him as a way of escaping their own prison. He thought of Mrs. Grantham and the doll-eyed walkers that he and Clive had passed on the roadside. I have a prison of my own that I’m busy escaping, thank you very much.
He thought of the door that led back out into the cold blizzard, telling himself that he could leave anytime at all, and that he was perfectly free, and saying it firmly, out loud, he mostly believed it. Isn’t that what we all tell ourselves? But he had just come within a hair’s breadth of freezing to death in a blizzard the likes of which New York had never seen and the muting and silencing of his compassion was a momentary need brought on by his reason. He decided that it would be best for the moment to do precisely as Officer Todd had asked.
He did not know how long he waited. Time seemed to have disappeared since he’d begun his walk through the mountains. Was it now Friday night? Or was it Saturday night? He got up and paced the floor. He sat down on the edge of the bed. He looked down the hallway again, noticing signs here and there, all written in Russian. What is this place? Shaking his head, he turned and walked back into the cell.
He thought to squeeze out his socks so they would dry faster, so he did that to all of his clothes, ringing them into the toilet and then stretching them out on the concrete bunk. He remembered Clive’s business card so he pulled it out of his pants pocket and blew on it for a second before sticking it into the zippered pocket of his pack. The memory is a funny thing. He was unsure of exactly what day it was, but he remembered Clive’s business card.
His body and his mind slowly reconnected. If he’d been asked, he would have said that the period from his entry into the facility until now had taken hours. In actuality, it had only been minutes. As he sat on the bed and his core temperature came up, Clay suddenly became aware of a noise in the hall. Keys turning. Clay heard whistling and a moment later Todd returned with steaming hot coffee, some garish prison clothes, blue slip on shoes, and a few more blankets.
“Alrighty Clay my-boy, here’re some temporary clothes and warmth for you. Be glad you aren’t being in-processed into this facility permanent-like. You wouldn’t like it in here.” Todd set everything down on the end of the bed and handed the coffee to Clay, who took it gratefully and with copious thanks.
“Bring those over into the office when you’re done getting dressed. I’ll throw them in the dryer for you. Oh, and bring your fish too.”
Todd turned to leave again and, as he did, Clay thanked him again profusely, but Todd just waved his hand at him dismissively. As he stepped out of the cell, Clay asked, “What is this place, Todd?”
“I told you. It is a juvenile detention facility. In layman’s terms it’s a juvie prison run jointly by the state of New York and the Federal Government for hard-core juvenile offenders.”
“Then why are all the signs in Russian? I… I didn’t stumble into Siberia did I?” Clay asked, smiling at his joke and trying his best to be polite.
Todd smiled but the smile seemed forced. “Well, Clay, generally when someone saves your life and offers to cook your fish for you it is best not to ask too many questions. That was part of our deal. This is a secure facility, after all, so let’s be clear about that.” He looked at Clay as if the matter was settled, slightly jutting out his chin and narrowing his eyes. Then he relaxed and added, “Listen, I figure your brain is still a little frozen from your hike and the details may be a little cloudy. Drink your coffee and put on these dry clothes and I’ll talk with you in the office when you’re done.”
****
Five minutes later, Clay walked into the office, feeling sheepish and embarrassed in the jail clothing, but refreshed nonetheless. He had the blanket around him and carried the wet clothes wrapped up in his shirt. Todd took the clothes from him and dropped them into a plastic mail basket next to his desk. Clay smiled to him and handed Todd the fish.
“Here in a minute I’ll go get you some supper,” Todd said, looking down at the fish, “and this will be most of it.” He slid out from behind the desk. “We’re shorthanded due to the storms, and our supplies are way down. Do you want another cup of coffee? We’ve got plenty of coffee.” Clay nodded, and Todd took his cup over to the coffee maker and filled it to the top.
“You still have power, I see. Sandy didn’t knock it out around here, I guess?” Clay asked, taking the coffee from Todd and nodding his thanks.
“Sandy was only the first blow, man. Power has been sketchy since she went through four or five days ago, but it’s looking like this nor’easter is going to do most of this area in BIG-TIME.” He really laid emphasis on those final words and Clay noticed to himself how quickly the memory of Sandy had faded. Already it was “four or five days ago” and he could relate, having lost his own sense of time in the aftermath. Todd continued, “P
ower’s out all over the eastern seaboard and some people are saying that it might be out for a long time. Radio called it a cascading blackout, and it’s more serious than it sounds. Last I heard they’re shutting down the nuke plants. We’re on a generator right now. As you probably saw out there, fuel was a problem even before the Nor’easter hit. Now it’s near impossible to get. That’s why some of the areas and hallways in this place only have emergency lighting levels right now. As is, though, we’ve got enough fuel for a week, maybe more if we really cut back our usage. In a serious emergency, we can get some more backup fuel from nearby, and if the stuff really hits the fan, I’m sure the National Guard would have us pretty high up on the list to get gasoline. One way or another, it looks like it’s going to be a long month or so before things get back to normal.”
There was that word again, Clay thought. What is “normal”? Seriously? Was it ‘normal’ in the millennia before his great-grandparent’s generation, or in the state that almost a quarter of the world’s population still live in today, where people have no concept of readily available electrical power? No running addiction to fuel? Who gets to define that? He didn’t say this to Todd. He simply shrugged his shoulders and sipped his coffee. It felt good to be back in his body.
“How long are they saying this storm might last?” Clay asked, hoping beyond hope that the nor’easter might blow through quickly and that he could really get back on the road in the morning.
“I don’t know. It looked bad last time I checked. Could be a couple of days,” Todd replied, “why? Where’re you headed?”
“Up near Ithaca. I got out of the city on Wednesday.” He stopped himself. “Or was it Tuesday? Man, are the days just running together for you now?” Todd nodded in agreement. “Anyway, caught a ride up yesterday, and then…”
“… then you got lost in the worst blizzard up here in modern memory? Yep,” Todd grinned, “that sounds about right. You were lucky to make it anywhere out there, man. Counting Sandy and now this storm, they’ll be stacking up bodies like cordwood after this is over.”
“I hope not,” Clay said, narrowing his eyes, uncomfortable with the word picture.
“You can bet on it,” Todd said, nodding his head and indicating ‘outside’ with his coffee cup, “one thing I know is that in this world today, people die when things aren’t running absolutely perfectly. One glitch, people die. Ninety-five degrees in Chicago for five days? They’re hauling bodies to the morgue, man. The worse the disruption, the more bodies pile up.”
And this we call normal? Clay thought, then took a drink of coffee and tried to change the subject. He wasn’t as subtle as he might have hoped.
“What in the world are you doing with a Russian prison here, Todd?” he asked, raising his eyebrows and trying to look innocent.
“I thought we agreed you were going to practice your manners, Clay,” Todd said, with a condescending smirk on his face.
“Ok, Todd. It’s your dacha. I’m just here drinking coffee, trying to warm up.”
Seeing that Clay was not at all satisfied with his evasion, Todd grimaced, took a deep breath and then offered an explanation. “There are a lot of immigrants from the former Soviet Union—you know, Mother Russia, the Ukraine, all of those old republics over there. My little wing of the prison houses juvenile prisoners from the former Soviet bloc who don’t speak much English. It’s as simple as that.”
Clay thought the explanation sounded rehearsed. And something in the back of his mind kicked at the thought that this man still used the term “former Soviet Union.” It had been so long since he had heard that term, even the maps and school textbooks rarely mentioned it at all. And now, out of nowhere, in the midst of the weirdness of his journey, he was hearing it used everywhere. He’d heard it on the television at Veronica’s, then from Clive Darling in his big, expensive truck, and now from Todd. It didn’t sit right, but he didn’t want to irritate his host so he smiled and said, “You don’t have to explain anything to me, Todd, I’m just here for the coffee… and some food?”
Todd smiled back. “Now you’re talking! I’ll take your clothes to the dryers and then get us some grub. Why don’t you go lay down in your cell and I’ll holler at you when it’s all ready?”
“Can we call it my ‘room’ instead of my ‘cell’?” Clay asked, grinning.
“Oh yeah, Clay, whatever makes you happy, bud… now you run on back to your guest room, and hotel manager Todd will get you some supper.”
****
As soon as Todd was gone from sight, and when he heard the double doors slam shut in that awful way that jail and prison doors always seem to shut, Clay walked back into his cell, lying out onto his bunk, feeling incarcerated again and thinking about closing his eyes and getting some sleep. But the coffee was doing its warm work in him and his mind was busy, though not yet working altogether right. He could still feel the disembodied faces of those young men down the hallway who cried and clawed at the door for freedom. What was their crime? Clay wondered.
He reached into his backpack, shuffled some things around in it, then pulled out his copy of The Poems of C.L Richter and looked at its clean blue cover, already familiar. The caffeine was finally starting to clear his mind somewhat and, stretching his neck to each side to relieve some of the stress, he turned to one of his poems randomly and read…
Who are they, who never loved us?
Generations gone and faded!
Seated high in freedom’s ample chorus,
Heedless, broad, and died ne’er sated.
Your buildings reach up to heaven!
Streets with traffic ring,
Sacred markets sing,
Burdens hefted mixed with leaven.
We sip the cup of your greatest failings!
Tread the paved earth and polish the railings!
Sense the grave fabric you tore.
Glance sadly at great hope’s dismissal,
Sublimity of your war,
On your children who grant you acquittal.
We walk now, cursed upon the earth,
And reckon not how our parents bequeathed us dearth.
He closed the book and shook his head. Wow. He’d been in a dark place when he wrote that. He wondered what Cheryl had thought of his glaring indictment of all of their ancestors. This distrust and dislike of modernity had been with him longer than he’d thought. Maybe he was just a Luddite anarchist, like Clive said.
He put the book back into the pack and zipped it closed.
Standing up again he considered for just a moment what it would be like to actually be locked in this cell, and then he laughed, figuring that it would feel kind of like the last six years of his life felt. Wasn’t his Brooklyn apartment his most recent jail? Wasn’t this what he was escaping? Back to comparing physical and metaphorical prisons again. If only I were tired enough to fall asleep.
He walked back out into the hallway, figuring it would be some time before Todd would return. He struggled within himself for a moment, hoping to keep from looking through the door that led down the hall to the others. But the window, crisscrossed with chicken wire, drew him in like a moth to flame.
The faces were still there, and when they saw him appear a struggle broke out, some pushing and shoving, and then he could see that they held up a new sign. He had to strain his eyes again, lean really close to the window and allow his eyes to get used to the extremes of dark and light.
This is not prison. Students! Help we! Dying! Starve!
Another paper was thrust against the window…
No food 1 week since Sandee. Hungered. Help we!
What? He shook his head, showing the faces that he didn’t understand. How can that be? Todd seemed to be fed well enough. The place had emergency power. Why wouldn’t they be feeding the inmates? Was it a labor problem? Had people stopped coming to work? That could certainly be true. Clay couldn’t imagine anyone making it to work in the past several days.
His mind worked feverishly now as t
he faces once again begged him. Tear streaked faces, pleading for help. What if they are trapped. What if they are telling the truth? Could it be? He suddenly put his finger on something that had bothered him about the conversation with Todd. He’d never in his life heard of a prison facility for a particular people speaking a specific language. Not in America. Not in 2012. As he watched the faces he noticed that several among them seemed to be pushing the others out of the way. Those faces mouthed the word “No” and “Go” and waved him away, but in a way that was subtle, not aggressive or obvious. He couldn’t decide whether they were afraid for the others, or for him, but he decided he ought to do something.
Clay walked back into his cell and looked around. He had a flash of inspiration and reached deep inside his backpack and pulled out the small pocket camera he’d carried with him since he left. He had intended to use it to document his trip and had made some small efforts to do so early on. One can only shoot so many pictures of downed trees, however, and he’d simply pushed the camera deep inside the pack and forgotten about it. He saw now that he had several exposures left on the digital dial and he stepped out into the hall and quickly snapped some picture of the faces in the window.
Mindful that Todd could walk through the office at any moment, Clay didn’t give much thought to what he was shooting. He simply raised the camera and listened behind him as he rattled off the last of the camera’s memory. He was vaguely aware that there was a scuffle in the light of the window as the youths—were they youths?—began pushing their way into the window. He then walked quickly back into the cell and hid the camera in the deep recesses of his backpack and turned around and sat on the bed. He was vaguely proud of himself. If nothing else, he thought, I can show it to somebody when I get out of here. Maybe some news organization would be interested in the story. He tried to fight it, but he couldn’t help it—his mind drifted back to the moment when Cheryl was trapped in that car, the girls dead, their lifeless bodies ruined on the cruel pavement. No one had been there to help them. What if these young people are trapped?
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