by Cassia Leo
The sheriff stepped forward, but Vivian held him back. “It’s no use, Terry. I can’t be responsible for her anymore.”
Stella turned away, threading her arms through Janine’s and Beatrice’s. This was it, she realized. Definitely time to move on.
***
32: On the Inside
THE prison movies got it right. Except for the parts they got wrong.
The worst stuff was pretty accurate. On his first day on the main cell block, he’d seen no fewer than ten shivs and shanks, all made of the most unimaginable things. Metal spoons, sharpened on the floor and made longer by binding twigs to them with twine. A broken handle of a paint roller, filed down so it could slide between someone’s ribs with ease. Even plastic tableware could be fashioned into weapons. Anyone who wanted to demonstrate power to the new inmate had flashed him theirs.
Dane hadn’t wanted the fear, hated the terror that crept over him, making him anxious and unable to handle himself like he knew was necessary—laid back and cocksure. His anger had gotten him here. Only a total lockdown from the inside out would get him through it. So when someone lifted a pants leg to reveal a toothbrush whittled to a point, Dane just nodded in acknowledgment and turned away.
The stuff the films got wrong was the tedium. Long boring hours in the housing units or out in the yard filled much of the day. Work duty was the best part, as he had something to actually do.
Dane walked the yard, a large dusty hole littered with inmates. Some of the men lounged on the lowest of the crumbling steps up a rolling hillside. He preferred to climb to the top of it, generally out of the main fray of men doing push-ups or talking in clumps, jostling and laughing, often plotting some scheme or another.
A month in, he had assumed his position in the inmate hierarchy. Mostly he flew beneath the radar of the big shots, the ones with cigarettes behind their ears, shafts strapped to their calves, and flaunting their power even before the guards. A few small-timers, hoping to ply him with their contraband, tried to mess with him, but he’d shown enough instability to make them wary, but not enough to incite counteraction.
He kept to himself. The caseworker had said he might earn a spot in the mechanic shop if he had good behavior, but he realized already he didn’t want it. Access to the metal and tools meant thugs wanted you to steal for them, and you had little choice in the matter. The shoe factory was better, well watched and fewer items of interest. But for now he was just fine in the laundry room, where the soaps and bleaches were on lockdown and all he ever handled was the endless white shirts and gray pants. He didn’t even get to the sheets, as they could be stolen and made into rope. He tried to be just competent enough to keep his position, but not so noteworthy as to get promoted anywhere with more responsibility and risk.
He kicked at a pebble, watching it tumble through the dirt and down the fragmented steps. He liked to walk the grounds, ascending and descending the crumbling stone, listening for the passage of a train just beyond the back wall. The sound reminded him of his childhood in Houston, living in a cheap house near the railroad tracks, the vague whistle and rumble so familiar that it lulled him to sleep.
He avoided the Supermax building, where the hard-timers lived. He knew that fighting or contraband could land him there, since he already had a man’s death on his rap sheet. He was established in Unit 4, one of the oldest, spare, just a sink and toilet and desk, two rickety beds, and no cellmate yet. He’d made it four weeks, he could do 620 more.
He sat for a moment, toeing the dirt, and realized he was spelling Stella’s name. He finished the letters, realizing this was only the second time he’d written them. The first was on the letter he’d mailed only a week ago. Still, she had not replied. It was probably better this way. He looked up into the sky. The clouds were the sort that as a kid, you would stare at and decide what animal they might be. One of them, almost right above his head, looked precisely like a circus elephant, fat body, squat legs, and an uplifted trunk that trailed out like smoke. The sight of it cheered him just a notch, an ever-so-slight loosening in his chest.
Unit 4 was lining up below, so he stood, brushed off his pants, and descended into the dust. He was settled, and right now all he could hope for was more of the same, that he’d be left alone, washing laundry, eating sparely, lying on the hard shelf with its thin mattress, listening for the train. It would have to be enough. He would make it be enough. If he was careful, he’d only be thirty-nine when he got out. Still time for some living.
But already, his life was changing. As they walked down the block of his unit, his cell door was open, two guards outside. And Dane knew what this meant. His cellmate had arrived.
***
33: Failed Visit
STELLA eased off the gas as the Mustang rolled slowly down Capitol Ave. The high stone walls of the Missouri State Penitentiary were unrelenting, stretching for blocks, punctuated by angled watchtowers topped by glass. Stella stared up at one of them, trying to spot the guard. The severity of the scene was lightened considerably by the most oddly shaped cloud, like an elephant with its trunk in the air. She almost laughed.
“Sure you don’t want me to go in with you?” Janine asked, but the quiver in her voice let Stella know she didn’t want to.
“No, that’s okay. There’s probably a list or something. I don’t think just anyone can visit anyone.”
“How do you know what to do?”
“I don’t.” Stella passed the main gate. “I don’t even know where to go in.”
“Seems like he should have sent instructions, or something. Didn’t you call?”
“I didn’t think about it. I guess I should have.” Stella pulled up to a stop sign. “But we’re here now. Might as well learn.”
Stella drove away from the prison and back toward the heart of town. “So I’ll drop you off at that dreamy little shop. There’s a cafe next door. If you’re done looking before I get back, I’ll meet you there.”
“Okay.” Janine’s face had returned to full color. “I won’t buy anything until you see it.”
“I don’t think I’ll be long,” Stella said. “I don’t know if I’ll even get in.” She pulled up before a row of stores. “Have fun looking—I’ll be right back!”
Janine opened the door. “I hope you get to see him. I really do.” She gave Stella a quick hug.
The slamming of Janine’s door sent Stella to shaking. She’d never done anything like this. She had no idea what to expect, although in movies she had seen people talking on telephones through glass. Was that the way it would be?
She approached the prison again. This time she noticed a small sign that said “Staff and Visitor Parking.” Okay, so one hurdle crossed.
She pulled up before a gate, and a thin guard in a gray uniform walked up. “Visiting?” he asked. His mouth seemed to have a permanent sneer. Occupational hazard, probably.
“Yes.”
He checked his watch. “Only half an hour left. You might want to come back in the afternoon.”
“Can I just pop in for a second?”
The man rolled his eyes. “Must be your first time. Nothing here happens in a second. ID?”
She dug the license from her purse. He wrote down something on a clipboard. “Park over there. Main door’s in the middle. Mind you don’t bring in anything but your ID and your keys. No purses, no bags, nothing.” He leaned into the car. “I don’t think they’ll let you in with that skirt. Too short. You got something else?”
Stella squeezed her knees tightly together. “Some jeans.”
“Change in the car. And read the instructions you got after your approval letter. They don’t like people ignoring their rules. They can prevent you from coming in.”
Stella didn’t tell him she didn’t have an approval letter. Surely she could find out what she needed inside. “Thank you.”
He pushed a button to open the gate. Another guard just inside waved her through.
She parked in a far corner and reached in th
e back for her bag. People were coming out the door of the red-and-white-striped building the guard had shown her. She tugged on the jeans, pushing the seat back to make it easier to maneuver. She had no idea about any of the rules. What did it matter what she wore?
Once Stella had changed, she jumped out of the car and locked the door, holding only her keys and ID as they had instructed.
A crying woman dashed out the entrance, trailed by a child, maybe five years old, who was sucking his thumb. She pushed past Stella. Another older man held the door open for her, shaking his head. “Tough times, tough times,” he muttered as she passed.
Just inside the entrance a large woman sat behind a table. “ID,” she barked.
Stella handed her the driver’s license, taking in the large room, a line of windows in the wall, like bank tellers, and two steel doors on either end. Two rows of benches housed people who seemed to be waiting expectantly, mostly women, all older than her. Stella suddenly flashed ahead ten years. Is that what she would look like then? Had they been young when they first came?
“Name of prisoner?”
“Dane Scoffield. Daniel. Daniel Scoffield.”
The woman flipped some pages in a large black binder. “No approved visitors for Daniel Scoffield.” She handed the ID back.
“I can’t see him?”
“Only approved visitors can see inmates.”
“But he wrote me a letter asking me to come.” Stella reached for her purse and realized it wasn’t there. “It’s in the car.”
The women didn’t look up, shutting her binder. “Only approved visitors can see inmates.”
“How do I get approved?”
The woman stared up at her as though she’d just asked to take Dane home. “Go talk to Mrs. Murchison. She’ll tell you the procedure.” She gestured vaguely toward the wall of windows.
Stella didn’t want to ask which one, but only two of them were occupied. One was a man, so that left the other. “Mrs. Murchison?” she asked tentatively. The robust woman perched on a stool, her hair tied severely back in a bun. She also wore the gray uniform, buttons straining across her bosom.
She had apparently already taken in the conversation, and she shoved a paper at Stella. “These are the rules of decorum and dress. No short skirts. No slit skirts. No cleavage. No jewelry. No purses or bags. No food. You can bring change for the vending machine. Your keys and ID will go over there.” She pointed at another window, where a bored young man leaned on his elbows.
“How do I get approved?”
“The inmate will send you a form to fill out. Once we have it, we will do a criminal background check. If you get cleared, you will receive another letter letting you know your approval status.”
“I don’t have the form.”
“Well, then, maybe he hasn’t listed you. He only gets twenty for his list.”
“I—I think he would. He wrote me asking me to come.” Stella was so confused. Maybe Dane didn’t know the procedure either?
Mrs. Murchison opened another binder. “Inmate?”
“Daniel Scoffield.”
She flipped through. “He’s new. Not even eligible for visitors yet, although”—she glanced at the calendar—“if he’s had good behavior, he can start seeing them tomorrow.” She flipped another page. “But that’s irrelevant. His list is blank. Did you turn in your form?”
Stella tried not to get impatient. “I didn’t get a form.”
“Well, he either hasn’t sent any out or he sent them out late.” She closed the book. “You can write him. Tell him you are willing to come.”
“Can I send the message here?”
“No, it has to go through the mail. We have a process.”
“So another several days before I can get a form?”
“If he sends one. Then a couple weeks on the criminal history.”
So another month she’d have to wait. If Dane even sent her the paperwork. She felt tears coming and got more angry with herself. When had she become such a sniveling wreck? She took the paper. “I see. Okay.”
“I can make a registry of your visit,” Mrs. Murchison said. “The caseworker might notice. She might tell him you were here. No promises. ID?”
Stella passed her the license and watched as her name and number were scribbled in the blank space near Dane’s name.
“Here ya go.” The woman attempted a mildly sympathetic look as she passed back the ID. “You got a phone number?”
Stella wasn’t sure which one to give her, Beatrice’s or the perfume shop’s. But the shop had an answering machine. She gave her that one.
One of the big steel doors opened, and she peered through, hoping to see anything inside. Just a corridor. An elderly woman came out, ushered by yet another guard. She was bent over, her gray hair pale against her dark forehead, which was all Stella could see as she was so stooped.
The woman lifted her chin, revealing tired eyes behind tiny silver spectacles on a chain. “I remember my first time here,” she said, and Stella wondered how they could tell who was new. “I looked a lot like you, young and fresh.” Her hand trembled on a black cane.
Stella whirled around and barreled toward the door.
She gulped in sunshine and air. Two guards stood near each other, smoking cigarettes by the stone wall. They saw her and laughed. “Bad visit?” one jeered.
Stella ran to her car in a full-on sprint. The Mustang roared to life, and she hightailed it back toward the guard station. The inside guard held up his hands. She rolled down her window. “Whoa, Nelly,” he said. “You can’t be rushing out like this. People will get antsy.”
“I have to go,” she said. “Please let me out.”
He chortled. “First-timers.” Still, he inspected the backseat before signaling the other guard, who opened the gate. The moment it had swung wide enough, she pushed the gas, aiming to put as much distance between her car and the prison as she could. Maybe forever.
***
34: Dane Gets the Number
DANE startled awake when the guard rapped on the bars. “You have a message.”
“Who, me?” Dane asked. His cellmate Alex still lay on his bed, a towel over his face.
“Yes, you. From the office.” The guard pushed the paper through the bars.
Dane shuffled forward. He hated midday naps, but even after a month, he could not get used to the 5 a.m. starts, the dark making his eyelids want to droop even as they were herded down to the showers. Each night he tried to sleep, but restlessness coupled with the misery coming from other members of the cellblock kept him up. He needed to stay sharp, and during the midday inmate count, they were stuck in their cells for over an hour. So he slept then.
The guard was the just-doing-my-job sort, not one of the blowhards who enjoyed authority. So the paper was simply passed over to him rather than crumpled or tossed or laid just out of reach on the ground. You learned to not give a shit about small stuff like that, and to never be too eager for anything.
He returned to his bed, unfolding the paper. At the top were his name and prisoner number. Then one line, “Prisoner has earned telephone privileges.” Then instructions on placing collect calls.
He glanced out the window, the sun lighting up the dome of his cell, carved from stone quarried by the very prisoners the rooms once housed. The walls had been painted so many times that they peeled in colors, white, brown—someone at some point had coated them in dusty blue.
He didn’t know Stella’s number. Or even where she was. He’d mailed her at the shop hoping Beatrice would know. He knew addresses. Just not numbers. They didn’t give them phone books. Information was a big thing, powerful, and in short supply on the inside.
He flipped the page over. On the back was a handwritten note.
Stella Ashton visited 10-20-84. Visitor services explained her lack of visitation status. Left phone number. 555-490-2309.
Call her. We can start the forms. Maggie
Dane’s hand gripped the paper so hard, it c
rumpled. He panicked, realizing how easily this number could be lost. He glanced at Alex. A difficult cellmate, hyper, overanimated, always making jokes Dane didn’t get. Alex came from Brooklyn originally and had failed to get extradited after a botched armed robbery. Dane had never explained his own crime, but obviously the inmates talked, as Alex came in on the second day saying, “I ain’t gonna get you mad. I ain’t ever gonna make you mad.”
But there could be worse. Alex might be emaciated and jacked up, already working the system for contraband and hoping for drugs, but fortunately he didn’t have any street cred or cash. Dane expected, though, that as much as the boy asked around, their cell would be subject to more searches than usual. Didn’t matter. He had nothing but his blank envelopes and paper. Having nothing to lose made life easier, although he did keep the scrap of pink fabric that was Stella’s hidden in a crumpled piece of paper in the back corner of the desk.
But now there was this. He opened the drawer and took out the pen. He wrote the number on another piece of blank stationery. Then he waited for the guards to pass again, and quickly scribbled the number both on the side of the desk, and on the wall by his pillow. He lay back on his bed, and for the first time in a long time, just to be sure he could not lose it, committed a phone number to memory.
*
The three phone booths in the rec area were all taken, so Dane sat on a rickety chair nearby to wait. He refused to let his anxiety show, something that could be used against him. If he didn’t get to call today, tomorrow was just another day.
But it did matter. Stella had come by yesterday, a Saturday. She’d left her number, so she wouldn’t know why he didn’t call. She had no idea how limited their time was, how hard it could be for someone new on the block to get to a phone. He tried to look like he wasn’t waiting, and didn’t care, but stayed close, to be the first in if someone left a booth. He kept the paper folded tightly in his palm, hidden, a dead giveaway that he was a first-timer. Didn’t matter, he’d memorized everything. The dial-out number, the prisoner code. But he had no idea where Stella’s number would lead. A hotel, or the shop, or one of Stella’s friends. He doubted she’d moved back home. She’d come to see him. Hopefully that didn’t mean something was wrong. God, what if she were pregnant? Or getting arrested for being there too? What if Darlene had gone after her?
