The woman in the background said, “Then run the fucking numbers again.”
“This isn’t a good time to talk about it,” Ivy said.
She heard a faint crash, like something had fallen off Danny’s desk. “Is something wrong?” he said.
“It’s not a good time.”
“Tell me.”
“I saw Natasha Balaban.”
“I heard.”
“Did you also hear that Herman Landau was there?”
Pause. “I didn’t know that was in the cards,” Danny said.
“You told me she just wanted contact with a normal person who saw him in there,” Ivy said.
“That’s what they said.”
“They?”
“She,” said Danny. “That’s what she told me.”
“So you didn’t know about all these machinations.”
“Machinations?”
“Like their own investigation,” Ivy said, “and this lawsuit, and whatever else they’re up to.”
A longer pause this time. “Natasha’s a very angry woman these days,” Danny said. “Very angry and very rich.”
But wasn’t that the kind of thing that the boyfriend, man in your life, husband, was supposed to protect you from—not set you up for? Ivy kept that thought to herself: maybe it wasn’t very evolved, a thought from the last century or the one before, when women weren’t expected to protect themselves. She just said, “I’m the writing teacher. Period.” But no longer true: she felt a twinge inside.
Danny laughed, a high little laugh that reminded Ivy of her high school and the smartest boy in the class. “But that’s crazy,” he said. “You’re way more than that.”
“Way more than what?”
“For Christ’s sake, Ivy. Look what’s happening with Whit. You’re going places. Forget about Dannemora.”
“I like that job,” Ivy said.
“You mean you’re not done with it?”
Clusters of people had magnetic power, as Ivy had realized rowing across Wilderness Lake; but Dannemora’s power was disproportional, still strongly tugging at her here in the biggest city in the land, where it should have been completely overwhelmed. Why was that?
“Don’t tell me you’re going back there,” Danny said. “It doesn’t make sense.”
In fact, she hadn’t thought about it. This New Yorker thing probably did mean a whole new world opening up, but what parts of the old world should be preserved? She stole a line from Herman Landau, the kind of advice Natasha Balaban was probably paying seven hundred dollars an hour for: “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“Are you gathering material?” Danny said. “Is that it? Hasn’t prison stuff been done to death?”
Professor Smallian had put that kind of question to rest on day one: Everything’s up for grabs—it all depends on the angle of attack.
Ivy was walking up the block, a bag of groceries in hand—three Pink Lady apples, a pint of nonfat milk, carrots, lettuce, tomatoes, four ounces of smoked salmon, a loaf of seven-grain bread and a five-dollar bar of French chocolate, half of which she’d eaten on the way home—when she saw the mailman coming the other way. The mailman on Schermerhorn Street had a long gray beard, wore shorts all year long, hated dogs. Their paths crossed in front of Ivy’s building and they ended up climbing the steps together.
“Seidel, five?” he said.
“Right.”
He handed her a little bundle of mail.
Ivy mounted the stairs, groceries in one hand, mail in the other. She flicked awkwardly through the bills and catalogs, took a quick scan, and—what was that? A New Yorker envelope? She thumbed her way back to it, lost control of the mail, which slipped from her grasp, and—trying to snatch it from the air—she lost control of the groceries, too, and all kinds of things—bills, catalogs, apples, carrots, chocolate—went gliding and tumbling toward the second-floor landing. Ivy scrambled down the lopsided staircase, scattering this and that, finally laying hands on the New Yorker envelope.
She tore it open.
A letter. One single page. No check? Maybe a contract came first. But no contract either? Her eyes ran down the lines of type, way too fast to take anything in. She backed up, forced herself to go slow, word by word; even then the sense at first eluded her, as though she’d memorized vocab lists but in fact knew nothing of the English language.
Who was it from? Robert W. Whitmore, editorial department? Who the hell was Robert W…. Whit.
The language began coming back to her.
Dear Ivy,
After some deliberation here at the magazine, we’ve reached the decision that your story “Caveman” is not quite right for us at this time. It’s still a fine piece of short fiction, marrying traditional narrative techniques with considerable postmodern thematic invention. On that point, it may be a little bit too “busy.” Have you given any thought to expanding it to novel length?
Meanwhile, please accept this in an encouraging way. Send any future submissions directly to me at the above address.
Cheers,
not quite right
a fine piece
“busy”
Seven key words that added up to rejection. Rejection meant something was wrong with the story, but what? Ivy reread the letter, still had no idea. To come so close! Or had she? Maybe this was all a favor to Danny, and Whit hated every goddamn word. Was that possible? Was the whole world just a network of endless string pulling?
Ivy’s heart was beating too fast, too light; she felt a bit dizzy, even stumbled slightly. A Pink Lady rolled off the lip of the second-floor landing and bumped its way down the stairs.
Ivy handed over her license—by now she knew to leave everything but that and the writing folder in the car—had her hand stamped VISITOR and passed through security. Taneesha met her on the other side, walked her to the library. An inmate watched her over a laundry hamper.
“How are things in the big city?” Taneesha said.
“Good question,” said Ivy.
“Can’t be worse than here,” Taneesha said.
They went by a bank of wall phones Ivy had somehow missed before, inmates talking on every one, more waiting their turn.
“Is it true all calls are collect?” Ivy said.
“Oh yeah,” Taneesha said.
“What happens if they try to make it not collect?”
“Won’t go through,” Taneesha said. “They all get their own PIN number so we know who makes any call, plus they’re only allowed a few preapproved numbers on the other end, close family plus their lawyer.” Taneesha glanced at her. “Why?”
“So they’re not allowed cell phones,” Ivy said.
“That’s a joke, right?” said Taneesha.
Two big officers she’d never seen before stood outside the library.
“You guys know Ivy, the writing teacher?” Taneesha said.
“Hi,” Ivy said.
They gave her a look that seemed a little long; maybe they were new. She went inside.
Three students already in place: Harrow at the far end; Perkins on the right; and on the left, his arm in a sling, Hector Luis Morales.
“Hello, everybody,” Ivy started to say, but her throat had closed up and she had to clear it and try again.
“Hi, teach,” Morales said. “I’m back.”
He gave her a look that Ivy read as friendly and nothing else. She started handing out the pencils and papers.
“All stoked up for more poem writin’,” Morales said.
“What would you like to write about?” Ivy said.
“Dunno,” he said, taking a pencil and sticking it behind his ear. “Just wanna write and write.”
“Great,” Ivy said. “Anyone else have a suggestion?”
Harrow shook his head.
“How ’bout dusty death?” Perkins said.
“We did dusty fuckin’ death,” said Morales.
“Could do it again,” said Perkins.
“Let’s wait for El-Hass
am,” Ivy said. “Maybe he’ll have an idea.”
Morales laughed.
“What’s funny?” Ivy said.
“El-Hassam,” said Morales.
“Psych ward,” said Perkins.
“What do you mean?” Ivy said.
“ ’Cross from the infirmary on A-block,” Perkins said.
“But what’s wrong with him?” Ivy said.
“Freaked fuckin’ out,” said Morales. “Seein’ giant bugs and shit.”
“But—” But El-Hassam had seemed so calm inside—except, she remembered that last time. Ssssssaaaaab: when something snakelike had emerged. Ivy looked to Harrow, a look for help, as though to the only other sensible person in the room. No help there: Harrow was bent forward in concentration, already writing.
“You found something to write about?” Ivy said.
No reply. Harrow’s pencil raced across the page, scratching out a faint sound like skiing in soft snow. Something made Ivy glance at Morales: he was watching Harrow, too. That huge vein in his forearm throbbed.
“Hey, man,” said Perkins in his deep rumble. “Teacher talkin’ to you.”
Harrow looked up. The pencil kept going on its own for a second or two, like a primitive life-form with its head cut off. “What?” he said, his eyes foggy.
“She aksed you a question,” Perkins said.
Harrow turned to her, eyes unfogging. “Sorry,” he said.
“Nothing to be sorry for,” Ivy said. “Find a topic?”
Harrow glanced down at the page, half-covered already. “Yeah.”
“Maybe we could all take a crack at it,” Ivy said.
“Crack,” said Morales, making a little snickering sound.
“We writin’ ’bout crack?” said Perkins.
“Nope,” said Harrow. “Cops.”
“Cops?” said Ivy.
“We all know something about cops,” said Harrow.
“Amen,” Perkins said.
“Teacher here don’ know,” Morales said.
“Huh?” said Perkins.
“What she know about cops?” Morales said.
They all looked at her.
“I once got caught shoplifting,” Ivy said.
They all perked up.
“Yeah?” said Morales. “Rings? Watches?”
“Twizzlers,” Ivy said.
“What the hell’s that?” Morales said.
“Licorice candy,” said Perkins. “My wife eat it all day long.”
“You got a wife?” Morales said.
“One time,” said Perkins.
Silence.
“This was the green kind,” Ivy said. “I’d never seen the green kind before.”
Harrow was smiling. Had she seen him smile before? Surely not, because she would have noticed how white and even his teeth were, all except the left—what was the word for those front ones? incisor?—all except the left incisor, made of gold. “How old were you?” he said.
“Fifth grade,” said Ivy. “I must have been ten.”
“What did the cop do?” Harrow said.
“Maybe it was a security guard, now that I think of it,” Ivy said. “He told me if I ever did anything bad again he’d tell my parents.”
“That it?” said Morales.
“And he said to stop crying.”
Silence. Then Harrow started laughing. Perkins joined in, then Ivy, finally Morales, too. They were still laughing when Sergeant Tocco walked in. The laughing stopped.
“This must be where the fun happens,” he said. He crooked a finger at Morales. “Got a minute?”
“Class ain’t over,” Morales said.
“For you it is,” said Sergeant Tocco.
“Over for me?” said Morales. “I like this class.”
“Maybe Balaban liked it, too,” said Sergeant Tocco.
“Little Felix?” Morales said. His chair scraped on the floor. “What the fuck you talkin’ about?”
“Play it that way if you want,” Sergeant Tocco said. “But let’s go.”
Morales shook his head. “Not goin’ nowhere,” he said. “Class ain’t done.”
Three COs in riot gear pressed into the room, a hard wedge of clubs, shields, helmets. Morales jumped up, slipped his arm out of the sling. Sergeant Tocco took Ivy by the shoulder, pulled her out of the way. The COs crept forward with short precise steps like a six-legged organism. They bellowed at Morales: “Turn around. Hands on the wall.”
But instead Morales lashed out with one of his legs, a tremendous kick that sent a shield flying across the room. Then he dove straight into the wedge, his huge fist pounding deep in the gut of the shieldless CO. The others struck back with their clubs, whacking Morales in the chest, the head, his bad shoulder. Ivy felt pain in her own shoulder, but it was only Sergeant Tocco’s hand, squeezing hard. Morales cried out, went down. They fell on top of him, whacking and whacking.
From the other side of the table came a roar unlike any Ivy had ever heard, deeply human but savage at the same time. Perkins vaulted right over the table, grabbed one of the card-table chairs, swung it at the backs of the COs struggling with Morales on the floor, swung it so hard it blurred in the air. Now a CO cried out, a cry even more agonized that Morales’s.
Morales yelled, “Rip his head off.”
Then Sergeant Tocco was on the other side of the library. He brought his club down on the back of Perkins’s head, not especially hard but the placement must have been perfect because Perkins slumped to the floor without a sound.
A few minutes later, they were all gone—Morales and Perkins on stretchers, followed by the COs and Sergeant Tocco.
Taneesha entered. “You all right?” she said.
Ivy nodded. She realized she was squeezed up against the wall and came forward a little, legs not quite steady. Harrow sat in his chair with his hands folded on the table, hadn’t moved the whole time.
“I’ll walk you back,” Taneesha said.
Ivy checked the clock on the wall. “Class isn’t over,” she said, feeling—somewhat crazily—very alive.
Thirteen
In the Dannemora library: Ivy at one end of the table, Harrow at the other; plus the wall clock. A very old wall clock, Ivy noticed for the first time. The red second hand paused with a click sixty times a minute, audible to her now with just the two of them in the room.
“You don’t have to finish the hour on my account,” he said.
“How about showing me what you’ve written?” Ivy said.
“I understand if it shook you up,” Harrow said. He looked her in the eye, then away, then back again. Their gazes met; as they weren’t supposed to in prison. “Scary shit like that,” he added.
“You didn’t seem scared,” Ivy said.
“I’m used to it,” said Harrow. “But there’s a big gap between what just went down and your Twizzlers caper.”
“What did just go down?” Ivy said.
Harrow shrugged. “Guess they want to talk to Morales about what happened.”
“To Felix Balaban.”
“Yeah.”
“Meaning they think Morales was involved?”
“Oh, Morales did Felix, all right,” Harrow said. He started folding his sheet of writing paper, making an airplane. “The only question is why it took them so long to figure it out.”
Ivy felt her face getting hot, as though she were guilty of something bad.
“You okay?” Harrow said.
Ivy nodded. “Felix was so harmless,” she said.
“What did he steal?” Harrow said. “Fifty mil?”
“I meant in here,” Ivy said. “He was so harmless in here. Just a little guy, and all the others are so…physical. Why would anyone bother to hurt him?”
Harrow laughed. “You’re funny.”
“What do you mean?”
“People bother easily in this place,” Harrow said. “The Kings especially.”
“The Latin Kings?”
“They have a thing about respect,” Harrow said
. “Their only thing, really, and Felix had a way of talking that didn’t go over well.”
“They killed him for that?”
“Beats getting killed for nothing at all.”
The clock ticked a few more times. Harrow finished his paper plane, sleek and tapered, making a tiny adjustment on one of the swept-back wings: a beautiful plane, actually.
“I hear you looked out for him,” Ivy said.
Harrow glanced up “Who told you that?”
“His wife. I saw her a few days ago.”
“Oh, yeah?” said Harrow. “Natasha, right?”
“Yes.”
“How did that go?”
“She’s very upset.”
“Maybe she’ll feel better soon,” Harrow said. He paused, held Ivy’s gaze. “When she finds out about Morales.”
“You think so?” Ivy said.
“Wouldn’t you?” said Harrow.
“I don’t know.”
“Sure you do,” Harrow said. “Revenge feels good.”
“Not to everybody,” Ivy said.
“Call it justice, then,” said Harrow. “Same feeling.”
“What will happen to him?” Ivy said.
“Morales? He’s a lifer already.”
Ivy looked away. Nothing further was going to happen to Morales plus he’d done a horrible thing, so why did she feel ashamed of herself? “And Perkins?” she said.
“Perkins they’ll throw in the hole for a while,” Harrow said. “He just got caught up in the excitement. Lots of the guys in here are like that.” He flicked the plane across the table. It flew in a long curve and glided down in front of her, landing smoothly.
Ivy unfolded it and read:
The Cop Who Busted Me
Let’s call him Ferdie, maybe not as good a name as any, but it fits. Ferdie knocked on my door and said, “Police. Open up or we break it down.” Or some similar cop hello that I didn’t hear over the sound of the vacuum. Housework time, and I was just finishing up in the family room. Do I need to describe the family room? The only thing that might interest you was one of the photos on the mantel. Ferdie and I are both in it—Ferdie in the front row, beside the coach, holding the football, me in the back row at the end, smiling like I’d thought of something funny. Long gone, whatever that was.
End of Story Page 10
