Thinking about those times, it seemed as if I was nothing like the women around me. Not even like the ones whose prisoner I’d suddenly become. But like them, I was there. Still in my nightgown and a jacket one of the officers had given me, I was there and feeling completely pitiful. A pitiful Black Barbie. No corvette or Ken in sight.
Finally in my cell alone, all I could think of was how I got there. Thick tears gathered as I thought and thought about this question. I couldn’t answer it. All I could do was think it. Over and again in my mind I asked myself the same thing, but answering it just seemed so hard. Yes, Jamison was having an affair, but how did we get there? And then if we’d gotten to the place where my husband was having an affair, how did we get there? It didn’t make any sense. I didn’t make any sense. The pain of the circumstance was wearing me down and as I sat in the holding cell, searching for the courage to make my first phone call, I felt tired, and finally it seemed I was a pregnant woman who had no business being away from her bed so early in the morning.
I even grew tired of crying. I couldn’t find another tear within myself, so I just sat there on a hard bench and rehearsed what I’d say to my mother. Yeah, I’d have to call my mother to come and get me.
One of the guards said that Jamison had come up to the precinct to bail me out but that they couldn’t release me into his custody because I was being charged with hitting him. I asked how I was going to be charged for hitting someone who was trying to bail me out of jail, and she explained that Jamison didn’t have to press charges. The state pressed charges in domestic violence cases. Apparently, it was standard procedure because most victims were afraid to press charges against their mates.
I listened to this information as if I was watching Court TV and she was talking about someone else. That Savannah beauty queen, who’d shot and killed her boyfriend. Lorena Bobbitt, who’d snipped off her husband’s penis. Domestic violence? First offense? Counseling? Charges? Going before the judge? Bail? There was no way she could be talking to me. “Do you have anyone else who can come get you?” she asked. I didn’t respond. There were only two people, besides Jamison, whom I could entrust with something so low as coming to bail me out of jail. One was Marcy, and I knew she was probably already on her way to work, and the other was my mother.
I know most people wanted to get out of jail as soon as possible, so they pick up the phone to call whomever and say whatever to get them there, but my situation with Mother was quite different.
She wasn’t an overbearing or overprotective mother, like most. That would’ve been easy. My mother was a little more distant than other people. Shortly after my father came back from the Persian Gulf, he started showing signs of post-traumatic stress disorder. They tried to control it with counseling, but it just got worse, and soon my mother simply couldn’t deal with it, so they put my father in a nursing home. While I was away in prep school when it all happened, the change affected all three of us, my mother the worst. She was so angry with my father for being sick that she seemed to pretend he was dead. She immersed herself even further into her social life, throwing these expensive parties, some even on weeknights, flying to Boca Raton for long weekends and going on monthlong cruises with groups of people she claimed were her “new” friends. “I’m alive again,” she’d say when I asked what was going on. “I lived for your father and the Army for too long and now I’m alive.” I knew it was a lie. My mother was simply trying to cover up the pain she was feeling inside for losing the best of the man she loved—his mind. He couldn’t even recognize either of us anymore, had taken to calling her “the enemy” when she did find time to visit. I knew that had to hurt. It hurt me. So Mother kept burrowing within herself, pulling away from me, my dad, and even herself as she sipped overpriced wine and pretended everything would be okay in her “new life.” Now my mother was a bit of a shell, a disconnected, empty shell that I loved for who she once was and hated for who she was becoming. Nevertheless, I hated letting her down. She’d been let down enough in her life, and I never wanted to be that person who did it again. Together, we’d carefully planned my life, and I knew this would be a blow.
I wasn’t sure how she might take the call. The old Mother, before Dad went to the nursing home, would’ve run to my rescue and been mad that I’d gotten myself in such a predicament. She might drag me home and try to take care of me and my baby, saying we didn’t have to ever go home as we both swore Jamison off forever. It wasn’t what I’d wanted, but it was what most daughters expected of their mothers. We all hated it, but in the end, it was comforting to know someone could care for you like only a mother could. Yet, I expected none of that from my mother now. She simply wasn’t capable of it. I just wanted her to come bail me out and drop me off at home. But could she even handle that?
E-MAIL TRANSMISSION
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
DATE: 3/17/07
TIME: 7:38 PM
Coreen:
I just wanted to say thanks again for finding my PalmPilot and taking time to contact me. By the way, I was shocked when you answered the door this morning. I was expecting “Duane Carter” (the name on the e-mail). But I guess you were a more pleasant surprise. Thanks again. Have a great day.
Jamison
E-MAIL TRANSMISSION
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
DATE: 3/17/07
TIME: 10:15 PM
HAHA! I knew something was wrong with you. When I opened the door, you looked like I wasn’t wearing a shirt or something. You should’ve seen your eyes grow all big. Yes, I am a woman and my name is not Duane. Duane is my husband. Well, he’s deceased. He died in 9/11 at the World Trade Center. He was a computer programmer. Anyway, one of the last things he did was install the Outlook on my computer so all of my e-mail has his old address on it. I never changed it. I guess I just didn’t want to. Kind of like having a bit of him around. You know? And there’s no need to thank me. Losing a PalmPilot could happen to anyone. I’m sure people find PalmPilots along the street every morning. LOL.
Coreen
E-MAIL TRANSMISSION
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
DATE: 3/18/07
TIME: 6:57 AM
Try telling my assistants it’s normal! They say finding things I’ve misplaced should be in their job description. Thank goodness they have backups for all of the data on my PalmPilot.
I apologize for bringing up the e-mail address thing. I can understand why you would keep your husband’s address. And I’m sorry to hear he passed. I know it’s probably hard on you, even after so long. My father died of leukemia when I was seven, and my mom had it pretty bad. Let me know if there’s ever anything I can do for you. I do owe you one.
Thanks again!
Jamison
Not Yet Gangster
Ahusky cough came cracking through the phone as my mother attempted to clear the night before out of her throat when she picked up the phone.
After realizing that I had to get out of jail before I gave birth to my child in the big house and everyone started calling him Tupac, I decided to just call her and suffer whatever drama she would bring until I got home to my bed. So far, she was right on point with the drama part.
“Mother,” I said sternly.
“That you, Kerry?” She coughed again. “I was wondering why anyone would be calling me so early . . . wait, is it the baby? Is the—”
“No, Mother, it’s not that,” I cut her off. “I need . . . I . . .” There was no simple way to put it.
“Oh, I thought the baby was here. Did you talk to Jamison yet about the name? You know I really think the whole junior thing is not necessary, considering that our family has the—”
“Mother,” I said, but she kept right on going.
“. . . solid name. Just name him after my father. Dean is a great name. Don’t you think? My fat
her would’ve been so proud and—”
“Mother!” I yelled again. “It’s eight in the morning. Do you think I’m calling to discuss baby names?”
“What?” she said.
“I need your help.”
“Well, you don’t have to holler at me like that. Control yourself, Kerry. You know no one likes a woman with a loud mouth.”
“Okay, fine,” I said, lowering my voice to the level she agreed was desirable. “Look, I know this isn’t going to come out right, so I’m just going to say it.” I was stalling but I knew I had to get to the point. The woman waiting in line behind me looked like a cross between Big Foot and Goliath and she was staring at me like I was standing between her and a cheeseburger. It was no time to play prissy.
“Are you okay?” my mother asked. “Is there something wrong with the baby?”
“No, Mother. Just listen to me. I need you to come and get me.”
“From where?”
“I’m in jail,” I said finally. The baby kicked at my stomach. He must’ve been sleeping for a while because I hadn’t felt his kick in a minute. I turned my back toward the woman behind me and whispered into the phone. “I need you to come and get me out NOW.”
“Jail? Stop toying with me, Kerry,” she said with a thin laugh. “I can’t sit on the phone and play games with you. I have to get myself ready to go to the airport.”
“Mother, I’m serious. I’m in jail.”
“No, you’re not. Stop playing. It’s not funny. Jail? Could you imagine?” I could hear the seriousness slipping into her voice. She was whispering into the phone as if there was someone in the room with her, but I knew she was alone. This was just her way. The last bit of Southern belle left in Thirjane Jackson made it impossible for Mother to say certain words aloud, for fear that someone, even a ghost, might hear her. She was the kind of woman who still wrapped liquor bottles in brown paper before throwing them into the trash to hide them from neighbors, ordered the newspaper even though she didn’t read it, because it didn’t seem fitting for a house to be without a newspaper, and opened and closed the blinds promptly at dawn and dusk each day. Bailing her only daughter out of jail was certainly not on her to-do list.
“I’m not playing, Mother,” I said. Big Foot tapped me on the shoulder and groaned tiredly. She wanted her cheeseburger. “Look, I don’t have time. I need you to come and get me. I’m in Riverdale.”
“Riverdale? Why in God’s name would you be out there? Are you serious? Kerry, why are you in jail?”
“I can’t explain it all. It’s just me and Jamison; we had a fight and I was arrested.” As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I regretted them. My mother was very cold on Jamison. Not lukewarm. Cold. She never thought he was good enough to be my husband and at my wedding (which she half-refused to come to), she actually whispered “You’re her first husband,” when he and she danced at the reception. As could be expected, hearing that we were fighting was music to Mother’s ears. She’d probably be happy to hear that there was another woman involved. I’d done a good job of hiding it from her for so long, but I was worn out.
“Arrested for arguing with your husband? That seems unlikely. What happened?”
“Well, I’d gladly tell you if I had time,” I said, mimicking her inexcusable properness. With a raised index finger, I signaled for one more minute to Big Foot.
“Oh, this is ridiculous. How could you be in jail? My daughter? And you expect me to come and bail you out?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“And how do you expect me to come and do that? I’ve never been to a correction facility before. I don’t even know where one is.”
“Mother, I’m pregnant and tired. Just figure it out,” I said. She always made things harder than they had to be. And God forbid she forgot about herself for one second.
“Why can’t your husband come and get you?” she asked.
“Mother, this is not the time for you to debate the validity of my marriage. I’m in jail!”
“Ma’am, your time is up,” a guard said. She looked like a little plump Ewok, standing with Big Foot. I signaled for one more second again.
“Oh, God. I just don’t understand how you could be in jail, Kerry. I taught you better than that, didn’t I?”
“Mother, I need you to stop and come and get me now. We can talk about it when you get here. Okay?”
“I suppose so,” she said as if I was asking her for a kidney. I was her daughter, who was about to give birth in a jail with Big Foot and an Ewok looking on and my mother was only thinking of a bad headline.
After I gave her the precinct information, I was led back to my holding cell by the same gold-clad guard who took my fingerprints. As we walked down the hallway, which had cells on either side, kind of like a hallway in a dorm (but with bars instead of doors) I thought back to Jamison and how I’d ended up behind bars. I felt so humiliated, so stupid for what was happening to me. I loved Jamison with all of my heart. I tried my best to be a good wife, a good companion to him. I had left my job, a job I loved, so I could help him out with his company. I believed in him. I was there for him when he needed me, even put up with his crazy ghetto mama and her constant judgments about me.
I’d been crying all morning so my eyes were already swollen to the size of golf balls, but still tears managed to fall as I walked down that hallway, a prisoner with her belly protruding so far in front of her that she couldn’t see her feet. I wanted my bed, I wanted my husband, I wanted last night to be a bad dream I was about to wake up from.
I needed to curl up in a corner and be by myself, alone with my tears and my baby until my mother showed up. But when the guard and I stopped at my cell, I realized that alone was now impossible. While I was away, I’d gained a roommate. A cell mate. There she was, sitting on a wooden bench with her legs far enough apart that you’d think she was a man. Her face toward the floor, she had a head full of blond weave that was completely matted. It looked like a little cocker spaniel was stapled to her skull. She was wearing a soiled wife-beater, and tattoos mapped both of her arms. If the rest of my jail experience hadn’t been real thus far, I was confident that she was about to make it all a reality. That was clear. I felt like a nervous kindergartener walking into her first day of school, and when the guard opened the door for me to walk into the cell, I wanted to cling to her arm for dear life. I was big and bad at Coreen’s, but I was no fool and I wasn’t trying to have a real girl fight.
I stepped inside and the woman didn’t move to say hello.
“Um . . . do I get another call?” I asked, turning to the guard. I rubbed my stomach and flashed a “Don’t leave me in here with this woman!” look across my face, thinking maybe the guard would have mercy.
She didn’t even respond. She just pointed into the cell with the golden pyramid ring atop her index finger like I was the escaped cocker spaniel hanging from the woman’s head.
“Well, I need to use the bathroom. Is there one I could use?” I asked, stepping into the cell. The guard grinned and returned the petrified look I had with a “Lady, please” eye roll. She pointed again, but this time it was to a little commode that was in the far left corner of the cell. I’d seen it earlier, but thought for sure it was for something other than using the restroom.
“Okay,” I said glumly. She slammed the door and smiled, showing a gold tooth for the first time.
“Anything else?” she asked mockingly.
“Well, I could use a magazine or something. Maybe a book?”
“A magazine?” She started laughing and turned to walk away. “A magazine . . .”
I stood at the cell door, afraid to move. I’d been holding in pee, but standing between me and the toilet was the lack of a door and a woman I was sure had been a man once. While she was sitting down, I was certain she was at least six foot tall and about 200 pounds. I’d gained twenty pounds of baby weight, but I was still no challenge for her.
“A magazine?” I heard, but it wasn’t coming
from the guard anymore. She was long gone.
It was the woman, but I didn’t respond. I was too busy trying to figure out how long I could hold off going to the toilet.
She started laughing and I turned to look at her to see that she was now looking at me.
“You in prison, lady,” she said loudly. “Ain’t no damn magazines.”
Suddenly, laughs came echoing down the hall, crescendoing around me and slapping me upside the forehead. They’d all heard her.
“I know,” I said.
“McKenzie,” she said, reaching out to shake my hand.
“I’m Kerry. . . . Hi.”
McKenzie didn’t look as bad in the face as I’d imagined. There were no cuts in her eyebrows, no bullet wounds, no tears beneath her eyes. In fact, oddly enough, she had what most people would consider a sweet face. While her hair was a five-alarm mess, her nutmeg-colored skin was as smooth as a baby’s and her eyes were gentle and clear, nothing like someone who’d spent a life on the streets. Her eyes were comforting, in fact. They allowed something in me to loosen, and while she’d made everyone in the jail laugh at me, my ankles were about to implode if me and my extra twenty pounds didn’t sit down, so I walked past her and sat on a bench near the commode—I still wasn’t brave enough to use the toilet just yet. I’d have to hold it.
His First Wife Page 3
