Fallow Park Today

by Joseph Glenn

  “…as his love. He’s probably cared for every person he’s ever met. Even his enemies, the very people who would stop him, destroy him, and silence him. He bears these people no malice. Make no mistake: he’s opposed to them—and he’ll stand his ground. But he doesn’t hate them in return. His love of humanity and his insatiable need to understand it won’t allow him to hate his fellow man. He is able to see why they are the way they are. If anything, the most he can work up for his detractors is pity. This,” the prisoner said as though it were a revelation to himself, “this, most certainly, is why they must suppress him. Why am I just realizing this?” He looked Meredith in the eye as if she had the answer, or even understood the question. “They can’t feel tolerance, they won’t see any side of an argument but their own, and they’re threatened by an opponent who can. Of course, that’s it!” He was up again, pacing like a tiger in its cage.

  “Jack wants nothing but to take the people out of the parks and move us somewhere where we can live as we are. They, on the other hand, want his head.”

  Meredith suppressed a laugh and forced a cautious smile, in hopes that he would elaborate further. This latest tangential soliloquy seemed to be a new one for him, certainly a less prepared one.

  “This cell next door,” he pointed to the wall dividing his space from the one beyond it. He stepped to the wall and slapped his open hand on it, presumably for emphasis. “You know what they call this?”

  “No,” she said when she realized he actually wanted an answer.

  “The Jack Harbour estate.”

  “Estate?” She considered the word. “Is it an unusually well-equipped…”

  “Oh, no, it’s just like this one. The title is intended to be ironic. No one else will ever be placed in it but Jack. It is held open as if it’s waiting for him. So certain are they, is Makepeace, that Jack will spend his final years there. This is the level of their anger, the depth of their fear, the degree to which they express their cruelty. The bedding is changed weekly—even though it never gets used. Per Makepeace’s order, a Sunday dinner is placed there every week at six p.m., and is taken away untouched at seven-thirty.”

  “Charles Makepeace, Ph.D.” Meredith mused. “The man who insists that Jack Harbour doesn’t exist.” She affected the park director’s harsh, guttural tones: “No one has ever escaped from Fallow Park! Jack Harbour does not exist!”

  “Oh, he knows Jack exists!” the prisoner told her. “They never met; Jack got out of here not long after Makepeace started here. And their paths never crossed in the brief period they overlapped. But Makepeace has been in that cell—twice since I’ve been locked down here. I think he fantasizes about what he’ll say to him when he’s in his clutches. Not that that’ll ever happen. Jack Harbour will never be within a thousand miles of that cell.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Meredith said. “He does take risks, doesn’t he?”

  “Always has! Always will! But they’ll never catch him. There’s so much he can do for the cause without ever returning to the U.S. No, it’s necessary that Jack stay where he is, continuing to raise global awareness. This is the most significant thing he can do: embarrass this country by staying alive. His purpose now is to humiliate the U.S. by speaking out against its homophobia. By thriving in countries more advanced than ours, he embarrasses the nation. There’s irony for you. It was embarrassment that brought about the parks in the first place.”

  “Embarrassment?” Her inflection begged him for clarification.

  “The country couldn’t take care of its own,” he said. “The most developed country in the world we’re always reminded. One of the so-called global leaders. But unlike all of Western Europe, Canada, most of Central America, the oppression of the gay population was so great most gays abandoned the United States for safe harbors. It was a national embarrassment. Our allies—and even some of the countries we weren’t on the best of terms with—were welcoming gay Americans and giving them better lives than their own country could give them. Their home country couldn’t even keep them safe. Hence, the advent of the parks.”

  Thus,” he concluded, “Jack will never return. His place is in the free world, serving the role of a living martyr. Mark my words, this country has seen the very last of him.”

  He laid out on his cot again. Had he gone too far? Meredith surmised that he was in unrehearsed territory when he was allowed to let his speech reach this inevitable conclusion.

  “Someone like you,” he said, never taking his eyes off a spot on the ceiling, “someone who can travel, can get out of this country, you ought to look up Jack Harbour. You could, you know. Unfortunately, I don’t have his address. He’s a difficult man to find, given his ‘most wanted’ image. But you’re a celebrity; you have access to resources—to people who could put you in contact with Jack.”

  “Mm-hmm,” she said with a slight nod.

  “It’s impossible for me to reach him; you’ve probably noticed there’s no access to computers here. I am only able to follow him through the media—and the U.S. media gives him minimal, and always critical, coverage. None of it is accurate,” he added. “You have to take it all with a grain. It’s laughable, actually. The press has no idea where he is or what his next move will be. Yet there remains some interest in coverage of him, and that’s why they make up all the crazy things they report. They want to feed the interest in him. He’s back in the news this week—that’s what Smiley O’Reilly, the prison guard you just met, told me.”

  “I think I caught a piece of it,” she said.

  “My version was second or third hand, and delivered by a very anti-Harbour source. Some nonsense about his reentering the country. It was a specious story about a sighting in Dulles Airport. Ridiculous, of course—he’d never risk commercial travel like that—especially flying, but apparently Barefoot Park in West Virginia was put on high alert—that’s the closest park to the D.C. area.”

  “You don’t think he’s there?”

  The man shook his head. “I’m sure not. What would he do there? I think Jack has advanced from the simple park break-ins. They don’t pay off. At best he pulls a few people out of a park, but at too great a cost. It’s too dangerous. He’s moved on to swaying public opinion. As I said, this country is motivated by embarrassment: public, international embarrassment. Jack taps into the shame, humiliation, embarrassment by shining a bright light on our policies. He underscores the contrast between how gay men and lesbians are treated here as opposed to our treatment in more socially aware countries. This colors people’s opinions of this country. It diminishes the world’s perception of us. There are still a number of head-in-the-sand Americans who think the U.S. remains at the cutting edge of technology and cultural advances. Yet on this issue, we’re so hopelessly outclassed by almost all the other major powers, the other wealthy countries on the planet. We look hopelessly old fashioned and out of step with the rest of the modern world.”

  “You place a lot on Mr. Harbour’s shoulders.”

  “I do. He’s earned that,” the philosophical prisoner noted with a suggestion of awe and reverence. It was as if Jack Harbour’s triumphs were his own. “And those of us Jack represents,” he added, as though he had read her thoughts, “we’re on his incredible journey with him. We support him, encourage him as we can, but, as I said, contacting him is impossible. It’s a silent solidarity we give him, but one that is frustrating at times because we can’t thank him, we can’t assure him that his fighting is serving a purpose.”

  “Writing is out of the question,” she surmised.

  He vigorously shook his head. “Even if there were a way to reach him, or some friendly third party, the outgoing mail is censored. And all the incoming mail is read before it’s delivered. If I had someone visiting me from the outside it would be another matter. That person could take a letter out of here and mail it for me.” He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. “Would you—”

  “Of course I will,” Meredith answered. “I’ll se
e you again before I leave. Have a letter ready for me.”

  The man was noticeably pleased. His wide grin gave his face a more interesting look. From a physical standpoint, it was even easier for Meredith to see what Jack Harbour might have seen in such a man.

  He closed his eyes and settled more comfortably on the cot. Meredith guessed he was already composing the letter he wanted to send.

  “How long did he live at the Park?” she asked him.

  “Eighteen months,” he said without opening his eyes.

  “I heard he came in some years after it opened. I know he was not a volunteer from the early years.”

  “Jack Harbour?! Never! No, he was brought here about eleven years ago. He’d been living underground, as they say. He and a lesbian friend held themselves out as a straight couple. They weren’t what you’d call political activists. They really were just interested in being left alone—alone to pursue careers, personal interests, all the things we all thought of as entitlements before that life disappeared. Jack and this woman were great friends. Kelly, that was her name. They didn’t have a physical relationship, of course. In fact, they both had real partners. You could do that back then. There were still people, particularly in the major cities, living underground like Jack.”

  “How did the authorities ever catch up with them?”

  “In retrospect, I think it was just a question of time. Time finally worked against my Jack. It’s my understanding that all the people living underground have been found and have been—”

  “Institutionalized?”

  “Exactly. In Jack’s case, though, I think his capture was inevitable. He had made enough anti-government statements. Shortly after living at the parks became compulsory, he encouraged people to escape. He actually helped a lot of escapees create new identities to stay in the United States, or arranged for them to get out of the country.”

  “And how did he get his message out?”

  “Word of mouth, the internet—back when you could do that with some degree of anonymity. All of it was very hush-hush. No one knew his name until he was apprehended. He was a rogue saint; he was a ‘Robin Hood type’ taking on considerable risk—and earning a sexy vigilante reputation in the works.”

  “I imagine the transition to the park must have been a difficult one for him.”

  “I suspect it was. But Jack is so much a ‘doer.’ He doesn’t live in his head very much. He lives in the present. He’s very conscious of what he is doing, and his focus is on what can be accomplished right now.

  “Someone like that, well, needless to say, he found it easy to stay busy. He joined committees, started a couple groups of his own, got petitions going, encouraged straight friends on the outside—and he had a ton—to write to Congress, to actively protest. He was tireless. And he somehow found time for a social life, too. That’s where I came in—for a while.”

  “He didn’t have a great deal of success with his petitions and committees?”

  “None. The living conditions continued to deteriorate, and it was clear to him they would continue to do so. So, finally, he got out.”

  “How did he escape?”

  “If I knew, I wouldn’t tell you—you can believe that. But I don’t know. The specifics remain shrouded in mystery. If he’s ever explained how he did it, the American press has never printed it—which means all but certainly he hasn’t shared the secret. Their coverage of him is biased, but a story like that, they’d have a field day. Knowing Jack as I do, I feel pretty safe saying he hasn’t told. To do so would only ensure that the parks would be more carefully policed for similar escapes. No, Jack would keep quiet in hopes that others would figure out how to break out the same way he did. His escape is like a Houdini disappearing act. The story has taken on its own life. It has, I think, inspired people, or at least given them hope. I hope we never learn the details—it would demystify the whole legend.”

  “Do you ever think you’ll see him again?” The question seemed mean-spirited, but she was curious to find out if he had given up hope of reconnecting with the man.

  He seemed to weigh the question with great deliberation. For all his ruminations, it appeared he had not fully resolved this question. She was about to ask him again when he said: “I have to believe I will.” He said it with some degree of optimism. Meredith interpreted his subsequent silence as a sign of personal contentment, but then he made a squeak of a sound, something like a gasp and a hiccup, and tried to cover it by coughing. After sitting up and trying a couple of times to clear his throat, he rolled towards the wall, his back to Meredith. “No, I’m sure I never will.”

  The man became increasingly upset. She thought he was about to say more, but his voice cracked and only a muffled sound emanated. He was silent for some time, his back still to her. It had been cruel to toy with him; she wished she had not asked the question. But at last she was satisfied that she was seeing the man himself. Losing his composure was something he had not rehearsed. When he faced her at last, his face was contorted. Even in the poor light, she could see the skin on his forehead and cheeks was discolored. He tried to speak again, but gasped for air instead. When their eyes met, he quickly looked away. She was sorry to see him suffer like this; he was plainly ashamed of how his emotions had betrayed him. Yet, even so, watching him as compromised as he was, she reminded herself she did it for a reason; she had to break through his act, the routine he presented to strangers, and find in the man what Jack Harbour had once seen. His identity as a prisoner was emphasized by this uncomfortable moment. Meredith was even more conscious of how trapped he was, and that he had no choice but to deal with the stranger invading his space. Pride, dignity, privacy—there was no room for these in the ten-by-ten foot cell.

  She heard the sound of a pair of footsteps, the imposing march of the guard and the softer step of someone following behind him. She dropped the remainder of her cigarette into the toilet.

  “This is probably my assistant,” she told the man. “I’m sure he’s here to bring me to the church.” She rattled on, trying to lighten the mood and shift his attention. “They want to get some shots of me in the chapel and then I’m supposed to sit down with one of the pastors, a rabbi, and a priest. It sounds like the set-up for a joke, doesn’t it? A priest, a rabbi, and an actress walk into a bar, dot, dot, dot.”

  The guard approached with Bill. He sniffed loudly. With displeasure and indignation he looked first at Meredith, then to the man, now upright on his cot, and back again to Meredith. He clearly smelled the smoke, but did not force the issue. “Ms. St. Claire, you’ve got a visitor.”

  “Meredith,” Bill said in a deeper voice than he usually used. “They need you on the set—at the chapel, I mean.” The voice was so deep Meredith would not have recognized it as his if she had not been watching him as he spoke. She smiled knowingly at the masculine, he-man demeanor he was adopting. Adopted in part, she knew, to parody the needlessly macho guard. But was the affected voice a ruse for the prisoner’s benefit?

  The prisoner, attempting to compose himself, must have heard Bill’s remark, but he appeared to have retreated into his thoughts. If he had looked up, he would have noticed that Bill was closely watching him, studying him almost.

  “This gentleman is terribly upset,” Meredith said to her assistant. “I think I can find my way to the chapel on my own. Why don’t you stay and try to calm him down? I think he just needs a little company. Some things just need to be talked out, you know?” She tried not to laugh at this, it was so easy to get the man to talk. He certainly did not require anyone’s encouragement. To the guard she asked: “Would it be alright if my assistant stayed with him for a little while? I just don’t think he should be left alone right now.”

  “Yeah, that’s fine,” the guard said.

  Meredith stepped out of the cell, gesturing to the guard to lead the way. She looked over her shoulder and saw that Bill had put an index finger to the prisoner’s lips. “Shh,” she heard him say.

  Chapte
r Fourteen

  “…yet to be determined,” the slightly rotund, slightly stuffy smelling director answered Meredith. There was, apparently, much about “The Big Show” still undetermined, and still many problems unresolved.

  Meredith had already forgotten her question. It was designed to express her interest in the proceedings, but was chosen with the expectation that it would elicit an answer of no consequence to her.

  “…this is for certain,” the portly fellow, Del Carroll, droned on, “everyone involved was at one time a professional.” He pointed out to the empty seats. “That camera man worked at all of the networks in his all too brief career. These light people, all the techs,” he referenced with a wave at the catwalks about the stage, “all have theatre backgrounds.” He pronounced the penultimate word “thee-ah-tra,” presumably to emphasize its British spelling. Del Carroll did not speak with a British accent. Meredith hoped she was not supposed to be confused about his background; she had him pegged as a fringe type, someone who flirted with the business but probably had supported himself in some other field. “Most worked on Broadway, myself included.” In what capacity Meredith was left to speculate. “And, of course, everyone who sets foot on this stage on Friday, tomorrow night, was in the business. I think you’ll find we’re all up to your high standards.”

  What was his point? Meredith asked herself. So much fuss over a little show, an evening of back patting, a few songs, and some self-serving speeches for the benefit of the cameras, both his single camera and those of the California production company. Strange that this fellow was taking it so seriously. It was nothing short of curious, she thought, that he should go to such lengths to legitimize this circus. When she first came upon him, as she dutifully reported to the stage after her dinner, she found him crouched in a huddle with two of the suited men from the Administration Building; Makepeace’s henchmen, she had dubbed them after she noted them lurking about in previous set-ups earlier in the week. This Del Carroll was nodding in such vigorous agreement with whatever the brass—the henchmen—were telling him, his eyeglasses fell off. His enthusiasm was no doubt a product of his opportunity to get back in “the business,” albeit for just this week. What some people wouldn’t do for a moment in the spotlight, Meredith thought.