Hard Time

by McKenna, Cara

  “Show me.”

  “I marked a couple spots,” he said. He flipped to a dog-eared page, and casual as you please, he slid out what had become an absolute fetish object to me—a folded, lined piece of paper. He set it aside, near my hand.

  “This here,” he said, tapping a section header. “I don’t understand what this is saying.”

  “‘Herbaceous perennials,’” I read aloud. “I don’t understand what that means, either. But we can figure it out between us, I bet.”

  As I skimmed the chapter with him, I felt my mouth moving, heard myself speaking. But with his warm knee touching mine and his voice so close, everything else seemed to fade, like the contents of a cabinet veiled by frosted glass. His knee. Both his knees, I imagined, spread between mine. This voice asking me such different questions. Like that? Harder? Faster?

  The fog lifted as I sensed another inmate in my periphery. He was standing at a polite distance with a book of his own tucked at his side, watching.

  “Is that enough for now?” I asked Eric, sitting up straight.

  “Yeah. That’s real helpful, thanks.”

  “Before I forget,” I said, nice and loud and casual as I stood, instantly mourning the loss of his heat. “I brought you some worksheets. Up to you if you use them, but they might be helpful.” From my bag I drew out a fat stack of photocopies I’d made, my letter hidden among them. I handed them over, then took his folded pages and slipped them into my notebook, smooth as a grifter.

  “Thanks,” he said, closing the sheets in the landscaping book. “’Preciate that.”

  And with a smile that I hoped belied my hammering heart, I turned my attention to the waiting inmate.

  The whole drive home, all I could think was, I really did that, didn’t I? I really gave him that letter. And the adrenaline high went sour in a heartbeat.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  I didn’t know this man at all. Did I?

  It felt like I’d walked right up to him, handed him a glinting knife, and asked if he’d please cut the tag out of my shirt collar. Maybe he would. Or maybe he’d grab my chin and slit my throat. He could hurt me so badly with those words that had made me feel so good to write. I’d handed them right over. A weapon custom-made to destroy me.

  Sure, there was no ALA law about librarians getting involved with the convicts they worked with—we didn’t have a code of ethics the way a counselor or medical professional might—but the entire situation demonstrated a remarkable abundance of poor judgment on my part.

  It was like a switch got flipped. I went from giddy to panicked, instantly. I couldn’t even bring myself to read his latest letter—not until I knew what he’d do with mine. The only thing I did was peek at the very bottom of it.

  Wear yellow and I’ll tell you more.

  Yellow. I didn’t even know if I wanted to wear what he told me to, this time. Not when I had no clue what his next letter might say.

  Wear white, it might say. Then, Meet this guy, get this key, transport the cocaine from storage locker 707 to this address and only accept small bills. If you don’t, I’ll send your dirty letter to the warden and get you fired. By the way, I write just fine. Boo-hoo about your mean old ex-boyfriend, you stupid slut.

  Oh God oh God oh God, what had I done?

  I checked my phone obsessively through the next week, positive my boss’s number would appear at any moment and inform me that we needed to have a meeting. Immediately.

  It never did, but I never relaxed, either. I shoved my new green bra and panties way underneath my boring underwear in its drawer, barely able to identify myself as the woman who’d felt so slinky and mischievous buying them. I hid his letters down there as well. I grieved for the loss of what I’d had these past few weeks. This thing that had felt so good, suddenly gone. All my fault.

  On Friday morning I stared at the yellow shirt hanging in my closet. I couldn’t wear that. But if I didn’t, he might think I was through with him, and then he might really get mean.

  I compromised. I wore a black short-sleeved button-up, gray pants. No color anywhere, save for the yellow silk flower on the elastic I wound around my ponytail. Just a little wink of complicity. A little insurance policy, keeping him nice.

  It was my longest day at Cousins so far. The longest day of my life. A month crammed into eight hours.

  I was nauseated, and skipping lunch hadn’t helped. My stomach was a clenching fist, my nerves a swarm of hornets. For the first time ever, when Collier came through the door at the end of Resources, I felt cold, not hot.

  Oh God oh God.

  He had that book with him again, and a big manila envelope. He waited until I was done looking something up for another man, then wandered over to stand by where I was sitting.

  I smiled as much as I could, lips hard and bloodless.

  “You all right?” he asked, his brows drawing together.

  “Yes. Fine. You?”

  He shrugged. “I suppose. I did those worksheets you gave me.”

  He handed me the envelope. Someone had removed its metal clasp—hopefully a staff member. Not wanting to appear suspicious to the officers, I slid the papers out halfway. And he had actually done the worksheets, or at least the top one. It had never occurred to me that he might.

  “Great,” I said. “I’ll take a look before next week.”

  He stood there a second, not saying anything. A beat later, I realized something that broke my heart. He was hoping I had another letter for him.

  I got to my feet right as the bell rang. “I better get myself organized.”

  A single nod. “Enjoy your weekend.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I like that thing in your hair,” he added quietly. “Reminds me of marigolds.”

  I replied with another smile, a sadder one, tight with confusion and uncertainty, and I headed for the door. I ran from the man whose body only last week I’d wanted to feel wrapped around my own.

  It had been gray all day, and the rain finally arrived as I was grabbing my things from the office. I watched a sheet of water descend on the empty exercise yard, sudden and solid as a dropped curtain. My car was barely twenty paces from the staff exit, but I was soaked to the bone by the time I climbed into the driver’s seat.

  I pulled the manila envelope out of my tote and made sure it wasn’t too wet. I wanted to rip those pages out and find his next letter among them. Read what he had to say about my own letter. But did it matter what he’d say? Even the sweetest words could so easily be a lie. He still held the knife I’d given him.

  The downpour had tapered some by the time I reached Darren, and I hugged my bag to my chest, jogging doubled-over to the door.

  My clothes felt itchy as I entered my sticky apartment, and I wondered for the hundredth time if I could afford to buy an AC unit. I changed into dry yoga pants and a tank, and I stood staring at the envelope on my coffee table for a long time before I finally sat on the couch and picked it up.

  I flipped through the pages slowly, knowing there was a letter from the gap in the stack, from the size difference between the forms and the notebook paper. A thick letter, I thought.

  Thick with what? Assurances, or criminal instructions? Fuck.

  He’d actually filled out all the worksheets, and I’d included nearly twenty of them. This was either a testament to his boredom, or to his dedication to making the ruse look credible, or to his desire to impress me.

  I got to the notebook pages. Five of them at least. This must have taken him hours. Unless they really were some kind of extortion notice, one he’d composed weeks ago. And maybe not for the first time.

  I whooshed out a long breath, and I read.

  Darling,

  Thank you for the letter. That meant a lot.

  I was real angry to read about that guy who didn’t treat you right.

&nbs
p; And just like that, my heart slowed. My head cleared.

  I try not to get angry in here but that got my blood up. You deserve a man who treats you however you like. In some other life I’d try to be that man. If you wanted me to. In my old life I’d probably go after that guy who treated you bad, but I’m trying to not be that person anymore. I’d rather talk about you and me anyhow.

  I think it’s real sad how you didn’t want to feel anything for so long. It’s real sad that a man like me doesn’t get to be that way with a woman, but to hear about a woman just not wanting to feel that is so much sadder. It’s fucked up the way men can hurt women and how much longer it takes to heal than just a bruise or a cut.

  I started crying. Hot tears of pure relief, like I’d thought someone I’d loved had died, only to hear they were safe and sound. I let them flow, filling the room with my mewling, primal gasps and moans. I cried like a toddler, with no dignity whatsoever, and when my vision cleared enough, I read on.

  You’re a smart woman but I’ve got to say, it was pretty stupid of you writing me that letter. It’s the best thing I’ve been given probably ever but now I have to give it back to you. It’s safer for you that way.

  I read that again. And again. I flipped past the next page of his handwriting, and there was my own. That’s why his letter had seemed so thick. I started crying again, then laughing. Hysteria at its most hysterical, like I’d stuck a syringe full of narcotic-grade relief into my vein and rammed the plunger down.

  He gave the knife back! He’s good, he’s good, he’s good!

  I giggled, giddy, and ran to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of wine. I didn’t go to the trouble of changing or doing my makeup, but I spritzed some perfume then jogged back to the couch, bouncing onto the cushion. My date night was back! Twisted as it might be. My lover was back, abstract though our romance undoubtedly was. I snatched up the pages and took a deep, sweet taste of wine.

  I read your letter a million times this week. I tried to memorize it before I gave it back and I think I did a pretty damn good job. I copied down a few parts I didn’t want to forget, but nothing that might get you in trouble. Don’t ever give me a letter that way again. In person and with no envelope. Nobody checked me on the way out and they don’t sweep the cells more than every couple months, but when they do they read everything and any letter without a mail room or visitation stamp and staff initials means it must have come through the inside and that’s contraband and too many clues. It’s dangerous enough me writing all this but I figure if they find this they’ll find your letter so I may as well be clear while we’re being reckless. Anyhow if you want to write me do it through the mail with a made up name and address.

  “Oh, duh.” I smacked my forehead.

  No rule says I can’t get dirty love letters from a woman on the outside. Hell that’s what keeps most of these guys going in here. I hope you keep writing. Just do it smarter. Type it. Mail it.

  I hope I don’t seem angry. Just spooked. I’d hate for you to get in trouble over me. Enough about that.

  Indeed.

  You said you worry about using me to feel sexual again. Don’t ever worry about that. I can’t tell you how good it feels to do that for you. I know I’ll probably never see you outside this place, or actually be with you, but just knowing I do that for you is the most incredible thing I’ve felt in years.

  If we were together, I’d show you all the good things a man can do for a woman. I’d try to make up for what that other guy did to you. Everything you want and more. I’d make you feel so good and I’d never ask for anything until I got you off. I’d earn whatever you thought I deserved and it’d feel so amazing knowing you were wet because of me. I love that you think about me when you touch yourself. I don’t think anybody’s ever told me anything that made me feel so good. I bet I don’t need to even tell you I do the same. Sometimes when I touch myself all I have to do is imagine you saying my name. Just think about you saying my name while I was kissing you between your legs or touching you or fucking you however you wanted me to. I don’t even have to think about what we’re doing. Only about your voice.

  I hope it’s okay I said fucking. I only did because you said that in your letter too. I could say making love instead but I know you probably don’t love me. We barely know each other. Plus that’s who I am. I probably don’t make love. I probably fuck. I’d try for you if you asked me to, though. You’d have to tell me how it’s different. It just seems like something a different kind of man would do. I don’t know how to tie a tie, either. I’ve probably got a lot to learn if I ever want to be with a woman like you.

  You said you want to know how I’d be, during the sex. Usually in my mind after I make you come, it gets more rough. I’d never hurt you, not even if you asked me to. But I want you so bad I’d need to go fast. I’d show you with my body how bad I need to come. Inside you. I think that’s what you want to see. All the things you make me feel.

  I hope maybe I’ll hear more about what you want in another letter, but through the mail like I said. If you tried to hand me a letter and I wouldn’t take it I hope you understand why now. And if I hurt your feelings I’m sorry.

  I’ll see you next week darling. In green again I was thinking. You look so good in green. Even though you have blue eyes they almost look ocean colored when you wear green. And I’ve never been to the ocean.

  Yours,

  Eric

  I sighed, long and loud, letting my head drop back against the cushion. I took a sip of wine then nearly choked on it, realizing I still had an entire extra letter of his, the one I’d been too scared to open last week. I rooted through my undies and brought it back to the couch. Though my heart beat hard, it was nothing like before. I was in bloom again, petals spread wide and eager to soak up whatever he had to say. I propped my feet on the table and unfolded his pages.

  Darling, he wrote. And he told me about the things he wanted to do to me, the places he wanted to take me, if he could. The things about me that took his mind off his daily life, and roused his body in idle moments. And I wondered if he wasn’t a bank robber after all, the way he kept making off with my heart.

  Chapter Seven

  From there, our paper courtship began in earnest. And our in-person contact—the brushing knees and reckless glances and murmured code words—those became the highlights of my weeks. That and my steady progress in building Cousins a proper library. I’d convinced the warden to let me take over a classroom that I’d never once seen in use. For now it was just a dozen mismatched bookshelves and the most rudimentary of catalog systems, but it grew, week by week. Same as my heart seemed to grow with every letter Eric gifted me.

  Darling, he’d write.

  It was my birthday on Sunday. I’m 32 now if you were curious. How old are you? There’s so much I want to know about you. Tell me about where you’re from. Everything about it that’s nothing like where I’m stuck now.

  That night in bed I imagined you came to me, like magic. You were there and it was us and nobody else, real quiet. You told me you wanted to treat me, for my birthday. We kissed and then you were moving down, your mouth and hands on my neck, my chest, my belly. Then you were pulling down my pants, until you could see how big and hard I was from wanting you. Then it was your mouth on me, so slow and sweet, and you’d stop now and then and look in my eyes or say my name or smile. I asked if you wanted it, what I had to give. If you’d taste it. And you said yeah, let me have it Eric. And I did. God I have no idea if you’d ever let me do that for real, but for my birthday I let myself imagine it . . .

  And I’d write back.

  Of course I’d let you do that, on your birthday or any other day. I’d want your fingers in my hair, and your voice telling me what you liked, and your hips under my palms, shifting and giving away how excited you were getting. If you told me faster, I’d go faster. If you told me deeper, I’d take you deeper. If you t
old me suck harder, I’d do that, too. And when you couldn’t take anymore I’d beg to taste whatever you had to give me . . .

  I got his pages on Fridays, and wrote mine immediately so they got into the Saturday mail. It was nearly like I got to see him twice a week, since my letters almost always made it to him on Tuesdays, and just imagining his anticipation and reward was as exciting as opening one of his letters to me. I wore green, gray, purple, black, blue, white. Whatever he told me to.

  Darling, he’d say. Your words about made my week. There’s so much bullshit happening around here lately, but at night I can escape into what you wrote me for a little while. I like what you said, about how it smells like fall now. I smell it in the mornings, out on work release. I never liked school and I hate the winter, so I guess I just don’t like that fall smell the way you do. But maybe if things were different I could learn to like it. When it got cold outside I could hide out in bed with you all day, where it’s warm. When it snowed we could stay inside and I’d find a hundred new ways to make you feel good . . .

  And I’d curl up in my covers against the October chill, wondering how it was I’d ever pined for an air conditioner. I’d write, Sometimes I wish our circumstances were different, so I could come see you during visitation and say these things to you out loud. Of course then we’d have witnesses. We couldn’t say all the things we do here. But do they let you touch visitors, at Cousins? Hold their hands? I bet just feeling your foot against mine through our shoes would take my breath away. And it did, weekly, though I didn’t want to drop too many breadcrumbs for the folks in the mailroom. Lord knows what actually holding your hand would do to me . . .

  He’d tell me, Sometimes my favorite thing to imagine is just us on a big soft couch. Me on the end and you between my legs, on my lap kind of. I could feel your hair on my cheek while we watched a movie maybe, and I could smell your skin. It would drive me crazy, being against you like that. I’d get hard, I know it, but it would be so perfect, just being with you that way, I wouldn’t even care. Maybe you’d like that though, getting me excited. Maybe you’d take my hand and lead it wherever you wanted it. I could touch you between your legs just sitting together that way, feel you get wet and hot and feel me getting even harder. After I made you come, I’d lay you down on that couch naked and take what I needed . . .