by Susanne Beck
I was still screaming when I awoke. The sound rebounded around me as I pushed myself up on my elbows, trying desperately to free myself from the constricting web of my sheets. The walls closed in on me like a living thing and my lungs, already heaving from my nightmare, strained to draw in air. My heart thundered in my throat, making it even more difficult to breathe. My hair stuck to my face and neck in sticky tendrils.
Awareness came upon me with insidious slowness as my breathing gradually started to ease and my heart once again took up its rightful place in my chest. A soft, scuffing sound outside my cell made me turn my head in the direction of the barred door as I pulled the now freed sheet up to my chin.
One of the night-shift guards looked in, her large form backlit by the banks of fluorescent lights as they were turned on row by row overhead. "Are you alright, Angel?" she asked, her voice concerned.
"Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just a nightmare." Pushing the sweat-sticky hair from my face, I managed a shaky laugh. "Haven’t had one of those in awhile. Guess I was due for one, huh?"
The woman’s expression became sad. "Someone like you shouldn’t have nightmares, Angel. You should be out living your life somewhere, doing good for people. You don’t belong locked behind bars." Sighing, she shook her head. "This is one of the worst parts of my job; guarding an innocent woman."
"I’m not innocent, Peg. I killed my husband."
"You might have killed him, Angel, but you sure as hell didn’t murder him. I read the reports. The man was raping you, for God’s sake!"
"Raping me or not, I still killed him. The law demands I pay the penalty for that, and I am. But thank you for your concern. I mean that. It means a lot to me to know that people care."
I could see the faint sign of color on her face as she fiddled with the keys on her belt. "Anyway, you wanna get sprung? Almost time to start a new day."
I felt myself grin, unaccountably glad that the night was finally over. "Sounds wonderful."
A rattling of a key and the turning of a lock and another day began in the Bog.
* * *
After forcing down some breakfast, I made my way to the library. Corinne greeted me with a smile and gestured me over to my customary seat, where a pile of newspapers, some yellowed with age, awaited my perusal. At my questioning glance, she came to my table, tea mug in hand, and nodded toward the stack. "Heard about what happened yesterday," she began, setting the fragrant tea down on the table. "I wondered a bit about this Josephina myself since Ice never mentioned her to me. I did a little digging and came up with some interesting items. Have a look."
Sitting down, I sipped my tea, which was a definite step up from the sewer sludge they called coffee in the Bog. As I blinked the steam from my eyes, I picked up the top paper, which, by the date, was only a few days old, and shook it out. Halfway down the front page was a picture of a very familiar woman surrounded by dark clad lawyers and holding her hand up in front of her face to avoid the snapping cameras. The caption read: "Wife of Mafia Don to be Transferred to Rainwater".
Scanning the columns of text, I learned that Josephina was also known as Mrs. Josephina Briacci, the wife of Salvatore Briacci, a noted underworld figure in Pittsburgh. It appeared that Mr. Briacci had gotten himself into a bit of trouble over some extortion, failure to pay back taxes, and conspiracy to commit murder charges and was indicted by the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.
Reading further, I discovered that Josephina had refused to testify against her husband. While it’s illegal to force a wife to testify against her husband, refusing to do so gets the prosecutors upset. The newspaper speculated, in an editorial in the same edition, that Josephina’s charges, of accessory to conspiracy after the fact, were the State’s little payback for her refusal to play ball with them.
Usually people bound over for trial spent their time like I did, in the county jail. That she was sent, under cover of darkness, to the State Prison to await trial was a definite mystery and one which I was determined to solve.
The other papers contained more information on Salvatore Briacci and his crime syndicate, but very little else on his wife. My tea was cold by the time I put down the last paper, now knowing more about the so-called Mafioso than I’d ever wanted to learn. Stretching, I looked back over at Corinne, who had gone back to her desk and was leafing through some book or other, her half-glasses settled low on her nose. "Well, that tells me a little, anyway."
Looking up, she smiled at me, eyes warm over the tops of her glasses. "Not nearly enough though."
"Not even close. What is her connection with Ice? You didn’t see her out there, Corinne. She was absolutely devastated when Josephina died. It was almost like a member of her family had died or something." I couldn’t help shivering as I remembered the mournful howl and Ice’s murderous attack on Cassandra.
"Well, she certainly never talked to me about her, that’s for sure," Corinne replied, sounding just the smallest bit put-out. "I do have some ideas, though. For what they’re worth."
I folded my hands over the stack of papers in front of me. "And they are?"
"Well, one of the things that I do know, as I’ve told you before, is that Ice was tied up in Organized Crime when she was released from the Bog last time. I’ve never heard her name mentioned in connection with this Salvatore Briacci, but her whole trial was very hush-hush, so we can’t rule out that connection. Perhaps that’s how they met?"
"Possibly, but you said that the Mafia backed off when she was indicted for murder. It doesn’t make sense that they would treat each other so warmly if Ice was betrayed by her husband, does it?"
Corinne lifted her hand in an equivalent of a shrug. "Who knows with Ice? That woman’s more close-lipped than a virgin wearing a chastity belt."
I choked for the second time on my cold tea. That was one thing about Corinne; the woman had more off-the-wall sayings than anyone I ever knew. You never knew what was going to come out of that prim and proper mouth next. Swallowing back the dregs, I set the mug down on the table and worried the newsprint off the side of my hand with my thumb. "I wonder how she’s doing."
"Ice? I imagine just fine. She managed to find herself in a bit of hot water from time to time when starting up the Amazons. The hole is almost like a second home to her." Corinne sat back in her chair, took off her glasses and smiled. "She always did prefer her own company to that of other humans anyway. Don’t worry about her, little Angel. She’ll do alright."
Nodding, I turned my attention to my hand, managing to pretty much smear newsprint everywhere in the process of trying to wipe it off.
"What about you?" my friend asked.
"What about me?"
"Well, I heard about what happened yesterday, obviously. It must have been difficult for you to witness that."
"Which part?" I snapped. "Where Cassandra murdered Josephina in cold blood or where Ice almost strangled Cassandra to death with her bare hands?"
Obviously startled, Corinne stared at me, open-mouthed and blinking.
I let out a long sigh, dropping my hands back down onto the table from where they had been enunciating my point. "I’m sorry, Corinne. You didn’t deserve that."
My friend smiled once again. "That’s alright, child. I was just startled because I’ve never heard you speak out quite so emphatically before."
"Well, you’ve never seen me witness a murder and an attempted murder within the space of a half hour before either. It was . . .tough." I rubbed at my forehead, trying to ward off an impending headache. "I didn’t sleep well last night and I have a feeling those particular nightmares are gonna stick around for a long time to come."
"I imagine they might," she commiserated. "On a more pleasant subject, how are things going with Ice? Obviously they’re on hold for the moment, but I managed to get a peek at the two of you out in the yard yesterday." Her smile was a sly one as she looked penetratingly at me, obviously in search of an answer. To her credit, she never did ask me about the truth to the rumors of what I t
ermed, in my mind, the ‘Shower Incident’. "The two of you looked rather . . .cozy."
Managing to keep the blush from showing on my face, I nodded, continuing to meet her direct gaze. "They’re going. She’s a tough nut to crack, but crack her I will. One way or another."
Corinne nodded, crossing her arms over her ample bosom. "If anyone on God’s green earth can, my sweet little Angel, you’ll be the one to do it."
I stared back at her, wishing I could be so confident and praying to that same God, as well as any others who would listen, to be given the chance to find out.
* * *
The next two months passed slowly and quickly at the same time. Winter had finally come, sinking its icy talons into us all, raising tempers and lowering spirits. During a time when the outside world was roasting chestnuts over an open fire, trimming trees and making snowmen, the residents of the Bog were trying to keep warm and stay alive. Since Ice’s detention in isolation, tensions had risen in the prison. Montana had finally been given parole two weeks after the incident, leaving the Amazons effectively leaderless.
Critter was a good administrator, but she didn’t have the overbearing sense of machismo that characterized both Montana and Ice. Pony and Sonny didn’t want the job, preferring instead to remain in their roles as enforcers and the other Amazons, quite frankly, had neither the tenure nor the drive to lead such a diverse group of women in a common purpose.
Derby’s gang, especially, began to test the waters, moving in like a shark among a school of weaker fish. So far my friends had been able to hold their own but it appeared that it would be a race to see if they could hold off Derby’s advance long enough for Ice to be released from isolation.
The other gangs, emboldened by Derby’s seeming successes, began to make their own voices heard, managing to set off several small riots which the guards and the Amazons were hard-pressed to quell. All in all, it was a difficult time for us all.
For my part, I continued to live my life as best I could, staying, for the most part, in the background of prison life. My side job as purveyor of things great and small picked up some during the holiday season, managing to keep me busy enough that my mind didn’t constantly dwell on a certain woman spending two months of her life in darkness and solitude. My only saving grace was Corinne’s repeated assurances that Ice felt quite at home in the hole and would be fine.
I, however, was not fine. I found that I missed her terribly. Even on days when we didn’t speak, just knowing she was there made me feel safe and content in a way I hadn’t at any time before, even when I was free. This seeming connection that we had was something that I’d come to rely on as a lifeline and while in a way that feeling of dependence was frightening in the extreme, when thought about in the right way it helped to keep me grounded and centered. It was like waking up to find something you never knew you’d lost and so was all the more precious for the having.
To keep myself busy when the days wanted to drag, I made it my duty to keep up Ice’s cell. Though I wasn’t an expert by any means, my reading up on Bonsai gave me the basic skills needed to at least keep the trees alive if nothing else.
The first few times I made the trek to her cell, I was careful to keep my hands and eyes to myself, tending only to the trees and nothing else. I was very loathe to intrude on her personal space, so fiercely protected and cherished by this very private woman.
One of the first things I noticed was that the bonsai rake, its acquisition starting things between the two of us, was looking ragged and worn. I hefted it, surprised at its small weight, rubbing my thumb along the smooth wood handle as I imagined Ice quietly tending her garden. The thought brought a smile to my face and I quietly began to hum as I worked with the trees, trying to keep them as healthy as I could. I promised myself I’d replace the worn rake with a new one as soon as I could.
My resolve to let sleeping dogs lie started to waver, however, the more I visited the cell. The temptation to look around was just too great and I found both my mind and eyes wandering as I tended to the Bonsai. My gaze strayed from the trees to the maps, which hadn’t changed since I’d last visited Ice there, to the neat stack of books by the short bunk. One day, finally giving up all pretense of remaining uninterested, I walked over to the books as if drawn on a lure.
Tilting my head to look at the spines, I saw the complete works of Solzhenitsyn, which didn’t surprise me. Beneath that was a book on Ancient Mythology which was laying atop hard cover texts for Chemical Engineering and Aeronautics, respectively. I shook my head in wonderment as my eyes continued to travel down the titles. "Egg-head books," I whispered, disbelieving. "She reads egg-head books."
Unlike the collections of other inmates’ I’d viewed, and knowing the library’s check-out pattern by heart, I was slightly surprised to note that there were no torrid romance novels in the stack. ‘Bodice-rippers’, my mother liked to call them, her passion for the genre well known. My father often joked that she alone managed to keep the Harlequin people in business with her avid reading.
The biggest surprise, by far, was a copy of the entire Tao Te Ching, written in its original language. To me it was a masterful feat of intellect that she could even manage to read the thing, let alone understand and ponder it. But by the faint crease in its spine, the Tao appeared to be a book she went to often.
Squatting down carefully so as not to disturb the meticulous stack, I pulled the book from its resting place, glancing at the cryptography on the covers and running my finger over the spine. After a long moment, I opened the book, surprised when a small white square of paper slipped from beneath the cover and fluttered to the floor to land face down. Placing the book on the bed, I reached down and picked the square up, flipping it over but determined not to pry if it appeared to be something important.
My resolve lasted all of about two seconds.
What I had in my hand was a black and white photograph of three people and a dog. The man, tall and well built, was incredibly handsome. His dark hair slicked back, his chiseled face sported a pencil-thin "Clark Gable" type moustache. He wore a conservative dark suit, a bright shirt and narrow tie. Standing next to him, arm clasped under his, was an absolutely gorgeous woman. Tall and exotic, she wore her hair in a "Jackie Kennedy" flip with a small pill-box had set carefully atop it. She wore a light colored skirt-suit, white gloves and a matching purse clutched in one hand. Her free hand rested atop the shoulder of a young girl I recognized instantly as Ice. Dressed in what looked to be a plaid jumper, knee socks and patent leather shoes, her long hair tumbling over her shoulders, I could easily see the first blush of what was to become a great beauty in her fine features.
But what struck me the most, and in fact caused my heart to squeeze up in my chest, was the radiant smile on her face and the look of innocent, trusting happiness in those light-colored eyes. At that moment, I wished for nothing more in the world than for the ability to just step through that photograph, kneel down, and stare into the open and honest face of the young girl Ice had once been.
I didn’t realize I was crying until a tear landed on the picture, causing the features of a huge, black shepherd to become magnified under the salty liquid. Ice had the dog’s thick ruff caught in a fierce embrace and the camera had frozen the large pink tongue forever just inches from the young girl’s face.
Sniffing back my tears and carefully wiping the precious photo on the sleeve of my jumpsuit, I stared it once again for a long, intense moment. Reaching out a trembling finger, I gently brushed the frozen bangs on Ice’s head, smiling a little in reflex at the broad grin directed my way. "This part of you is in there, Ice. Somewhere. And I’ll help you find it again. I promise."
* * *
That evening, as I lay on my bunk, my mind was continually drawn back to the photograph and the sense of wistful happiness it invoked within me. Not only was the expression on Ice’s young face something to ponder, so too was the obvious love her family had for her. It got me to thinking about my own family
and my place in it.
As I read these latest lines, I realize that I haven’t told you, the reader, very much about my own family, aside from some random sayings of my mother and the like. I suppose now is as good a time as any to rectify that situation.
I was what is known as a ‘change-of-life’ baby. My parents were very spiritual and so had been trying very hard to have and raise a large family in keeping with the tenets of their church teachings. Every month they plotted and planned, keeping strictly to the laughable ‘rhythm method’, and every month they failed.
When my mother’s reproductive system finally decided to start giving up the ghost, what she thought to be menopause turned out, nine months later, to be me.
My father, who had always wanted a boy to carry on both his name and his legacy, was sorely disappointed when a howling daughter was presented to him instead. I’ve heard it said that in other families, fathers of this sort just pushed the tiny matter of gender aside and raised their daughter like a son.
Such was not the case with me.
Born to a family replete with old-world traditions, I was raised as primly as a proper girl could be. Frilly dresses cut carefully below the knee so as not to tempt the other toddlers milling about, white hose and patent leather shoes, ribbons and bows in my hair were my daily uniforms. Sewing and cooking and learning to be a proper woman were my lessons; my mother and her cronies, my teachers.
