Family Tree the Novel

by Andrea N. Carr

  CHAPTER 5

  When I returned to the holding area, a black lady approached me and said, “If you feel you need to talk, you can ask for me. I’m the coach here.”

  I remembered her face from when I was on my way back to the cell walking with the psychologist. That whole scene was mostly a blur; I noticed her because she was the only black face.

  I thanked her and said, “I might just take you up on that offer.” I knew I might need to talk as time went on. Her offer seemed genuine – out of concern the way black people feel deep and show emotion, like really good actors.

  I was sentenced to 45 days in jail. I would miss the funeral. Back in the cell, I was tired of everyone else asking what had happened, why was I upset, and was I okay?

  The swing shift deputy kept asking me if I felt like running; I wasn’t about to continue to put up with her. I didn’t understand why she was asking me that over and over. She went out of her way to fuck with people. I was not in the mood to be fucked with. This deputy was like a booger you can’t flick off your finger.

  I finally snapped. I yelled at her to leave me alone and get out of my face. At the main jail this wouldn’t be happening, I thought. So I asked to see a sergeant, so I could return to Orange County Main Jail. There are bars and cells with no concern for running, no privileges like going outside or looking out of the window, and definitely no clock on the wall or pool table.

  The deputy called the sergeant on the phone with a different voice from the one she used while speaking with me; asking him to come over to talk with me. Her changed attitude remained; the sergeant arrived; the deputy avoided looking at me. The sergeant assured me the deputy was only doing her job, after he heard her doctored version of what had happened before he arrived.

  “It didn’t feel that way to me.” He listened to me tell my version. Then he asked me if I had asked to see a chaplain.

  “Yes, I have already asked to see one, but there is no chaplain available.” He looked as if he were bothered by this news.

  After we talked, the sergeant agreed to administratively transfer me back to the Main. I had overheard Booger talking with her male deputy co-worker while I waited to be transferred back. He was asking her why she was so negative. I wasn’t wrong about her. He seemed to be validating my accusation to the sergeant about her, by allowing me to over hear him speak this way to her.

  I liked the fact the sergeant defended his subordinate’s position. I was an outsider and jail inmate that he couldn’t show any signs of weakness in front of. Although, I did feel comforted by his genuine concern for my situation at the same time. If he were the level-headed yet sensitive type, she would be exposed to him for what she truly was, eventually.

  I couldn’t waste anymore time trying to make him aware of her insensitive and unprovoked intrusions on my psyche. I didn’t have any more energy to try and convince him differently.

  * * *

  It was around 6:00 pm when I left the Musick Branch. I made it upstairs around 2:00 am at the Main Jail. I went to cell H7 bed 10. I felt better but I was tired from the whole process. I talked to a woman who had been here a month already. Her name is Cookie. She offers me the use of her deodorant, and baby powder if I needed them later on. This gesture is either an act of kindness or the start of a jail house romance, or both, I thought, kidding with myself.

  How would we break up? I felt like I needed a laugh. I’m not even gay; I laughed inside my head. I rather wished I was, maybe someone I liked could comfort me now. I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt and not look for other motives, when my judgment has been influenced by what I’ve heard previously elsewhere though it hadn’t been my own personal experience. I tried to make myself aware of what I was doing when this happened, so I could stop doing it.

  I thanked her, explained that I was at ‘The Farm’ but was administratively transferred back. The Farm is the name the Musick Facility is called because they grow their own food there.

  She asked, “Why?”

  “I asked to come back.”

  “Did you refuse to work? You can’t stay at the Farm and not work.” She continued folding magazine paper, sitting on her top bunk, never looking up from what she was doing.

  “No. I had a death in my family and needed to get away from Camp Snoopy.” Everyone was too happy, and cliquish there anyway. “The feeling, I had was that the women there thought they were better, because they were getting more privileges than the women over here, equating themselves that way.”

  “You’re kind of smart huh?” she said. I ignored her comment and kept talking. How could she know that already?

  “We’re in jail, and in jail we are all the same, locked up. I didn’t want the guards worrying me either, asking if I was thinking of running.”

  “I hear you.” Then she asked, “What are you in for?”

  “Driving on a suspended license.”

  “Are they putting people in jail for that these days” she asked, and laughed.

  “I guess so. I was sentenced to 60 days. What did you do?” I asked.

  “I’m about to go to prison for three years.” We left it at that.

  “What are you doing?” Whatever it was, she was diligent.

  “Making birds,” she said.

  “Jailbirds.” I commented. We laughed. She was folding origami birds, out of magazine paper.

  * * *

  That morning later on sometime after lunch, which is at 11:00 am, I woke up. I telephoned home to my mother’s house. She told, me she was arranging my release for the funeral.

  “How are you doing that?” I was stunned.

  “I went to court and asked a judge.” They are considering it? I thought. Mom was excellent when given the chance to litigate. She has a brilliant, sharp mind. If she had been educated, she could have been an attorney or politician easily. It was times like this when I was really proud of her, even though I worried if I would ever see daylight again after her intervention.

  She has the spirit of a mother bird, whose eggs you don’t take from the nest. I just hope she hasn’t pecked the hell out of anybody during her quest for my release.

  She asked, “You do want to go, don’t you?”

  I felt pressured to agree. I was guessing she could hear in my voice my reluctance to leave jail. In spite of our estranged relationship, she still knew me. I resented her, because she knew. Knowing my boundaries meant she knew. I required her honesty and she wasn’t honest with me.

  I dishonestly said, “Yes.” I felt my presence was required; not that I really had a chance to think about it. I was proud of the way she sorted it out and I didn’t want to rain on her parade.

  I knew the funeral would be a pseudo-funeral of what the real one should be. Leaving jail, in the middle of my sentence, will be difficult enough. I wanted to get my sentence over with.

  This funeral would be for them: everyone who had lost interest in Lady, everyone who tried to change her instead of help accept her deal with who she was. I didn’t think I met that criteria, nor did I want to take part in the production – that would mean I was in agreement of it and that was another lie. I knew it wasn’t going to be anything like what I would have planned for her or us.

  CHAPTER 6

  It happened in West Hollywood around 3:00 am. I turned on the windshield wipers. Harry is my friend, I didn’t know Sean. I had just met him; Harry introduced us as they got in my car. They’d been walking down Santa Monica Blvd. On my way, I saw them and pulled over. I gave them a ride up the street where I was going.

  I pulled onto Spaulding, a residential side street. We started to get out of my car; we were going to a bar that stayed open all night – in fact never closed. I let Harry and Sean out of the back seat.

  Harry asked, “Is it okay if I leave this in here?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  I was going to meet Larry. He was at the door of the club, leaving as we entered. They greeted each other. Larry was jealous I was with them. I’m sure he w
as thinking they were the reason I was late.

  “I’m glad I caught up with you. I started not to come.”

  “Why,” he asked.

  “A feeling or first thought.” I didn’t like to ignore my intuition, consequences have always been severe and long whenever I’ve done that in the past. But I had been so careless with time as of late, “I thought I had probably missed you. I’m sorry; getting a late start. I was writing.”

  “I sure hope you are famous one day, as much as you write,” he said. We laughed, he hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. He knew I was sorry he had to wait so long for my arrival.

  This wasn’t the first time. I did feel bad about it. He always waited for me. Whenever I arrived he would still be there. He turned and walked out the door of the club with his arm resting on my shoulder, and my arm around his waist.

  “I’m leaving you,” he announced. “I’m getting tired of waiting for you,” he said, walking me toward my car.

  In a lower tone I said, “Don’t go, I’m here now; this place is open all night.” I turned him around.

  “So? I’ve been here all night waiting for your ass,” he turned me back around. We walked to my car and I got inside. He leaned in the passenger window once I let it down. He looked as if he wasn’t certain about what he was going to do.

  “Are you getting in or not?” I asked. “I’ll take you to your truck.”

  “I don’t know. I hate you; I wish you loved me as much as you do writing. I miss you.”

  “You won’t harass me when I’m famous, make a decision. Get in,” I commanded.

  “I love you too, Honey,” he said. We laughed.

  “Let’s go, I’ll tell you all about my new book.”

  “Go where?”

  “To your house,” I suggested. “I gave Harry and his new beau a ride. I saw them walking down the street, on their way here. I’ll have to come back for them, they’re tweaking anyway.”

  “They’ll be up the rest of the night, they’re just getting warm,” he said. “They went straight to the dance floor.”

  “They’re going to wonder what happened to me.”

  “So.” Larry said.

  “Get in.” I repeated. “What are you looking at?”

  “Do you see that cop pulling up by you?”

  “I don’t have eyes in the back of my head.”

  “You always claim you’re psychic.” We laughed.

  “It doesn’t work like that.” Who cares I thought. I’m sober as a judge, I’m not even driving yet. So, what.

  “Hey, Harry left some Speed in here so they would let him in the club after they searched him at the door.”

  Larry opened his eyes wide.

  “What should I do?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Walk away.”

  “No.”

  I started to think about karma, vibes, and God. “I’m sure they need probable cause to search us, I wasn’t doing anything wrong. They’ll probably just keep going.” We aren’t doing anything wrong. I rationalized to help with my nervousness. I was desensitized to drugs because I was comfortable with them; I had used them. It never occurred to me to tell Harry no.

  “Put your hands on the hood of the car.” The officer told Larry. “Get out, and put your hands on the hood of your car.”

  “Are you talking to me officer?” I said in disbelief. They searched Larry first. I got out. Larry had Cocaine, Valium’s, Tylenol three’s and four’s in his wallet. This couldn’t be good. Even I was shocked by what he had on him. I’m sure the cops thought I was making a purchase. Then the Speed was found in my car, which they were already searching.

  I had been guilty in the past; why was I in trouble now? I had a traffic warrant. I would be in custody for at least that much. I didn’t have the money to pay a ticket I had received. I did community service instead, but was never credited. I resented having to deal with it again, so I didn’t. My driver’s license was now suspended. I hoped it would sort itself out somehow when they realized their mistake. It didn’t. I had no idea how long I would be dealing with it this time, or the events that were about to plague me.

  I started to play ‘imagine,’ a game I used to play with Lady. Larry and I weren’t going to have to worry about bailing out of jail, or finding time to meet each other ever again. We are rich and hang out all the time, because I’m a famous writer. I can afford to stay out of jail. Larry needs me, and he loves me, just like Lady. Larry was the male version of Lady. He’s a God as far as looks go. He’s about six-four or five, medium build. With a face of a goddess he is pretty enough to be a woman, but masculine. It is difficult to find him unattractive, no matter who you are, when he’s naked. He’ll dress a cross between Liberace and Elton John, often times gluing rhinestones to his forehead. I hate the way he dresses. He appears effeminate, but isn’t. He’s confusing to look at.

  I cried as the cop car drove me away. I thought about all the times Larry had been there for me in spite of his burdened life; living as a celibate gay man and hating himself or his sexual preference. He would not walk away.

  If he had just got in the car, we would’ve left already. Instead, he continued being difficult. That was his usual self. When he was sober, he gave me such insight into who he really was.

  I really liked him, though I couldn’t trust him. He was a lot of fun. I loved him. I was one of the few who were allowed to see him as himself. Just like Lady, I loved him. Also, like Lady, he did not listen to me. I had thought about introducing the two of them, but they would probably rob and kill someone over drugs. He was as handsome and as talented as she was – and lacked the self-control she lacked.

  CHAPTER 7

  I was released for the funeral. My sister Maya picked me up. It was about 2:00 am. I was so full of emotions. Maya was clearly in turmoil; I could tell from the weighted expression on her face. I was expecting Philip.

  “I don’t like you being in there,” she said.

  “Jail isn’t as bad as you think, it can be survived. In fact, there is a sense of camaraderie that is addictive.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s too much for me to explain right now.” We stopped at a gas station and bought cigarettes.

  After we reached Philip’s, he took me to his garage where he liked to sit and work on motorcycles or whatever project it was at the time. He and his friends used to take their bikes apart in our garage when they were thirteen or fourteen, around my sons age. At the time, I asked him why they did that. He said, to see how they worked. I thought that was nonsense. What kind of job are you gonna get doing that? Well, he kept taking things apart.

  They started putting trucks back together. Eventually they got wrecked cars and salvage titles. He fixed them up, mixed and matched parts. Selling cars and trucks, a jet ski, or anything with an engine pretty much. He managed to turn that into a six figures a year. I bought all my cars from him.

  He told me he loved me and he wanted to be closer to his family.

  “How are you?”

  “Okay.” He appeared to be trying to make sense of it all. Not just our sister’s death but all the secrets that had come out about the way our lives had been, and why we were not a close family. I was glad to know everyone was taking a reality check, really talking to each other for a change. I was being validated by them for once.

  I felt sorry for him; he was still my baby brother. I didn’t want him to hurt. I wanted him to think of the time we went to feed our pet chickens and we decided to give them fried chicken, instead of chicken feed. Then after they ate it, we ran and told Mamma they were cannibals. I remember Mamma thought we were so funny, she was trying to hold back her laughter; that way she could scold us about, ‘not feeding them fried chicken again.’

  I was always roping Philip into something when we were kids; he was mischievous like I was. I’m his senior by ten years and I think of him more like a son, protecting him. I wanted him to laugh to show me he would be okay.
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  I never told him about the things he had learned, because I didn’t see a reason to. I wonder if he knows everything that happened to Lady, or most of it. Although we didn’t go into detail, I could imagine all he had heard. I was so emotionally drained, but would have talked more extensively if he felt the need.

  “How do you say your family is bunch of crazies who do the best they can; when and how do you bring it up?” I asked him. He laughed; I felt better. They are not retard or schizophrenic-crazy, everyone appears handsome and pleasant to outsiders. That’s what’s crazy about us.

  I’m not bitter and I don’t want Philip to be. If his experience had been different from mine, great. It had, because he was so much younger than I was and most of us were already on our own. I have so much to think about. My head hurt. I lit another cigarette.

  “I started smoking again yesterday,” he said. “On the way to the airport to pick up Brother.” Our older sibling, who flew in from New York. “I started crying uncontrollably riding up the 405 freeway,” Philip said. “I felt better.”

  I hadn’t gotten to that point yet; they all seemed to be a step ahead of me in this grieving process. I think Philip was crying for many reasons. He felt that his sisters had been treated unfairly. Us girls were treated differently by my mother. My stepfather Robert was not of any real significance to me, he simply existed for show when you needed someone to do a dad thing. I had always promised if my mom died first, I would take care of him.

  He was so easy going. I wondered what he thought about things; he didn’t share his feelings unless he was really upset. Mom voiced her concerns about us girls: we could get pregnant and ruin our lives, the way she feels hers was ruined.

  “I wonder if Lady killed herself because of our different upbringing?” he said. He looked as if he thought maybe he should have done something different. It was not his fault, but I understood. I felt the same.