Voices From The Other Side

by Brandon Massey

  “My drunken father stormed across the playground and snatched me away. He beat me in front of all the other children. I didn’t know why. I couldn’t ask because he was too busy hitting me. My substitute teacher, Miss Bailey, tried to stop him but got pushed to the ground.”

  “Why is your daddy beating you?” Brewster asked.

  “Yesterday,” I started, but my throat tightened with fear.

  My eyes watered. My voice sounded like that of a child. “Yesterday evening, he sent me to the store to get him a pack of cigarettes. I brought back the wrong brand. He wanted Kool. I brought back Salem.”

  My daddy walked away. Left me on the ground. Kids laughed and pointed at me. I wished I was bigger so I could hurt him back. I wished him dead.

  The memory played over and over in my mind. Each time my daddy hit me, I twitched in my chair. I felt each slap, every kick. I convulsed in pain, almost as if I was in an electric chair.

  By the time Daddy got back home, the school had called my mother. They argued and fought. That night, they both died. The cigarettes.

  Eight

  An everlasting Pine-Sol smell. Echoing words. Rubber soles screeching on the saintly floor, walking in from the hollow hallway. Electronic doors being buzzed open and closed. The rattling of medication bottles as somebody walked by pushing a wobbly cart. Keys jingled like Christmas bells, then my door opened. Somebody from the outside world came into my hell. I smelled sweet perfume, the fragrance of my only friend.

  “Harlem?”

  I didn’t move.

  “You asleep?”

  “Nope. Just checking my eyelids for cracks.”

  “I brought you the newspaper. Sorry, I didn’t get it to you earlier, but I had the last two days off.”

  “Away from this beautiful place? What were you doing? Giving up the poonie?”

  “You are so nasty. Here’s your paper. I’ll read it to you.”

  “Thanks, Daphane. Could you loosen up this strap so I can get some more circulation in my hand?”

  “I can’t untie you, Harlem,” she said sternly. “You know that’s against regulations. I could lose my job.”

  “Please? I’ll be a good boy, baby.”

  She unstrapped the leather bindings on my wrist, and my hand was free. With one hand loose, I could easily knock her out of the way and set myself free in a matter of seconds. The doors to this place are a joke, and the security’s no threat to a brother as big as me. I flexed my wrist and pulled Daphane to me.

  I kissed her on the ear and whispered, “Thanks.”

  I would hate it if she lost her job. If she was fired, I’d have nobody who understood me. The loneliness would kill me.

  She giggled and slapped the side of my head. “I told you I’m married, so quit flirting with me.”

  “Let’s run away together.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “But tomorrow, my sweet, tomorrow never comes. It’s always today.”

  “I know. Tomorrow never happens. Some people have no tomorrow.”

  “So live for today.”

  “Shut up.”

  She kissed my cheek, then we made small talk as she massaged my arm, restarting the circulation. I told her it felt better, then she put the restraint back on. This time it was more comfortable. She sat in front of me on a stiff plastic chair and read the stock market reports to me. She always educated me on what trends to look out for and where to put my money, if I ever got out and got any money. She wanted me to get cased and go straight. Most of the time I didn’t understand what she was talking about, but I liked to hear her talk that smart talk.

  She’d invested some of her own money. Overtime money that she kept stashed from her dumb-ass, cheapskate husband, just in case. She had made close to eight thousand dollars over the last six months. I was very interested in what she did. I encouraged her, and she encouraged me. Through me, she was gaining more autonomy in her life. Through her, I maintained a freaking life. If I weren’t so messed up inside my head, I’d want to love her forever and a day. I know I could, if she’d let me.

  “You know I love you, don’t you?”

  “Shut up with that nonsense,” she said, then flipped her hand at me. “Your medication must be kicking in.”

  After we joked a little, she read me the entertainment section, then the comic strips. “The Family Circus” always cracked me up. But it made me sad, too, because it makes me wish I had a family. People who cared. I bet the people in the cartoon strip had relatives to turn to when they got to the end of the road.

  “How’s your sister?”

  “Fine,” Daphane said. “I showed her the picture you gave me. She wanted to know what a fine-ass brother like you was doing locked down in a shit hole like this.”

  I laughed. “Couldn’t afford Club Med.”

  “Who are you?” Daphane asked sincerely.

  I smiled. “Harlem.”

  “No. I mean, who are you?”

  “I’m the sum of all of my experiences. I’m the culmination of a series of events that have allowed me to arrive at this moment. Even, quite possibly, driven me to this moment. I have controlled some, but most have led me. There is no other identical to what I have become. None. I am me.”

  “Har de har har.” She smiled, then gave me a serious look. “Harlem, really. Who are you?”

  I closed my eyes and cried. Daphane wiped the tears from my face.

  I whispered a frustrated, “I don’t know.”

  For years I had been shipped from place to place, had wandered from place to place, and I’d never found me. In one session, Brewster told me to look inside myself to find me. I did. Nothing was there.

  Nine

  Brewster had started to work my last nerve. This nowhere session had run a little over thirty minutes. Daphane didn’t come in today, so he brought along Phyllis, the funny-shaped sister with the atrocious, rough skin that made her look like a nappy-headed Gila monster. Her ugliness could run the T-Rex out of Jurassic Park. She put me in a mood.

  “Harlem,” Brewster said in that monotonic, patronizing voice I fucking hate, “tell me about the girl. After we talk about it, I’ll let you get your rest.”

  “She was a woman. A woman.”

  “I apologize. Tell me about the woman.”

  “Why you always apologizing?”

  “I’m sorry. I thought I offended you.”

  “Doc,” I said, exhaling. “You’re a spineless, punk-ass piece of shit. Now, you want me to apologize?”

  “Do you want to apologize?”

  “Punk you.”

  Phyllis just watched and listened. They wanted to know about Patricia. I hate it when they bring that shit up, which is why they don’t do it too often.

  “Patricia was your first girlfriend?” Phyllis asked, her brittle voice equally as patronizing.

  “Yes. I was fourteen; she was fifteen. Right before I dropped out. I was a virgin; she wasn’t.”

  “Did that bother you?” Brewster was scribbling as he talked. “Her, eh, experience?”

  “It bothered me that she fucked Charles.”

  Phyllis said, “She made love to another—”

  “No, she fucked him. She loved me.”

  Brewster cleared his throat, probably as a signal for Elephant Woman to shut up, then said to me, “And he’s your best friend?”

  “Was my best friend.”

  “So you tried to kill them?”

  “I didn’t try. If I wanted to, I could’ve. That’s why I did what I did and walked away. Every time the bastard takes a step, his limp’ll remind him of me. Every time that bitch sees her face, or what little I left, she’ll see me.”

  Phyllis cleared her throat. Shifted. “Then you raped Charles’s girlfriend?”

  “It wasn’t rape. He went inside my woman, so I went inside his. Eye for an eye. Retribution. It’s in the good book. Look it up sometime, why don’tcha?”

  Brewster repeated, “Retribution?”

  “She came ov
er to visit. I always knew Greta wanted me, especially after we found out Charles and Patricia had fucked us over. The first time, yeah, I held her down, tore her shit off and took some from her. Not much, just some. I’d been violated, and I wanted to pass it on. You know, keep it going like a chain letter. She shouldn’t’ve met me up at the park after it got dark. Hey, two days later, she came back and gave it to me. So she must’ve liked it. So it wasn’t rape. Next question.”

  “She killed herself after that,” Phyllis said.

  “Why’re you giving me old information, huh?”

  “You forced yourself on her, right?”

  “Don’t even try to Perry Mason me, bitch.”

  Her notes dropped from her lap when she jumped up. “Who’re you calling a bitch?”

  “Who answered?”

  Phyllis’s rookie ass exploded. I must’ve struck a nerve. As Brewster struggled to get control of the session, she growled herself calm. When the room quieted, after she’d picked up all the junk she’d dropped, after Brewster had taken out his handkerchief and wiped his sweaty forehead dry, I smirked a dark, Jack Nicholson-ish “Gotcha.”

  Phyllis jumped up again. First her face convulsed, then her mouth dropped open. Nothing came out. Either that, or it was at a pitch so high, only dogs like her could hear it. She stormed over her dropped stuff and left. Couldn’t hang. Brewster stood and called her name a few times before he glanced at me. He shook his head and massaged his beard before he slowly picked up her stuff, then marched out a couple of seconds later. He knew he might as well go because I never said shit to his smoke-smelling ass unless somebody else was in the room. And if he wanted an easy session, that somebody had better be my Daphane.

  Session’s over for today.

  Ten

  Three days went by. No Brewster, no Daphane. No ugly-ass Phyllis. Just some skinny, short-haired, nameless, young Hispanic-looking intern guy dropping off food and giving me medication. Then again, he might be Chinese. Anyway, he gave me the bland crap they called food. He didn’t actually give me my medication; he just watched me take it and made sure I swallowed it. He’d check back a few minutes later to make sure I didn’t throw it back up after he left. He’d speak politely, but I never looked up or said anything back to him. I think his name was Billy. Or Jesus. Or Wang. Or Epstein. Maybe Bubba. Anyway, I didn’t give him a problem either.

  Eleven

  On the fourth day, Daphane came in carrying a food tray. No newspaper. No smile. Shades. Blue long-sleeved sweater over her milky-white uniform.

  I grinned. “You been on vacation again?”

  She removed her glasses, and I saw her blackened eye.

  Daphane said, “No. Sick leave.”

  Her husband had hit her again. She wouldn’t show me, but I think she had body bruises. All the beauty that lived and radiated in her speech had been killed. She sounded like one of them. In killing the life in her, he’d killed the life in me.

  She told me it wasn’t the first time he’d hit her. I told her it wouldn’t be the last. She didn’t answer.

  “He went through my stuff and found out about the extra money, and when I wouldn’t give it to him, he went off. I told him I was saving for our future. He didn’t give a shit. I couldn’t come to work looking the way I looked at first. You know, too many questions and looks and whispers. But I can’t afford to be off. They frown on absences. Especially us nurses.”

  Daphane sat in her favorite plastic chair and watched me eat. They unstrapped me three days ago, so now I could walk around the room unsupervised. There was nothing life-threatening in this cell, so I wasn’t no threat to myself or to anybody in here. Daphane came in unescorted because they knew I’d never touch her in a bad way. Outside of her and the food guy, everybody else came in paired or tripled up.

  “Other than that time, have you ever hit a woman?” Daphane asked.

  “Yep. Girl I used to do named Cassie.”

  “That’s awful,” she said.

  “But she hit me first. Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it.”

  “That didn’t make it right.”

  “That made it a left hook.”

  Daphane kept on watching me pig out. When I’d look up at her, she’d grin. All you could hear was the sound of my plastic fork scraping against the Styrofoam container.

  Daphane quieted for a moment. She said in her fragile tone, “I probably won’t see you anymore, Harlem.”

  My heart stopped beating. “You’re not transferring out are you?”

  “When I get home, I’m going to kill my husband. I’ll kill him, or he’ll kill me. One of us has to die.”

  “Daph—”

  She fingered her eye and cringed. “I told myself if a man ever hit me like that, I’d kill him. He’s been beating me off and on for over a year. He slapped me real hard in front of my friends, and now they won’t call or come around anymore. My family won’t help. I’ve let him get away with too much, too long.”

  “Just leave him.”

  “Where would I go?”

  I couldn’t answer. My heart wanted to say go with me, then I remembered where I was.

  Daphane walked to the door and looked back. “Our secret.”

  I shook my head. “Don’t. It ain’t worth it. Do like Cassie did and go to one of those shelter things for women.”

  She walked over and kneeled by me. “When you killed that man, the one on the film. The Seven-Eleven man. When you shot him, it didn’t look so hard. Was it?”

  “That was different. That was me.”

  “What did you feel when you looked him in the eyes, when he begged you to just leave? Powerful? Free? What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then I can do it to the man who brought me my pain and feel that same nothing.”

  “Don’t.”

  “If I don’t, then who will? Remember what you said your father did to you on the playground? Remember what you felt? The humiliation. The shame. The need for revenge.”

  “Don’t. When I get out, I’ll take care of it for you.”

  “You’re here for at least another year. Maybe two. I can’t wait for you that long. I could be dead by then.”

  “If I cooperated with Doc, made all the sessions real easy, played the game, I could be out in six months.”

  “That’s a big if. And like I said”—she touched her face again—“I could be dead in six months.”

  “Help me get out.”

  “How would I do that?”

  “Make it look like I escaped. I could do it late at night, when you’re not on shift, when they got those whacked rent-a-cops watching the place. I could take them out real easy.”

  “No.”

  “If they catch me, I’m crazy. I’ll just come back here, and you can read me the funny papers.”

  “That was nice of you.” She smiled. “Thanks for the offer.”

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  “You can’t stop me.”

  “Well, what if I just told them what you’re planning to do?”

  “They won’t believe you. Don’t forget, they think you’re crazy. You’re the patient. I’m the nurse.”

  She kissed me on my lips, wiped away the lipstick, then walked out and locked the door behind her. From the other side, I heard her call back, “Take care of yourself, Harlem.”

  The sounds of her shoes screeching against the concrete quickly faded.

  Twelve

  Brewster and Phyllis finally came in for my afternoon session. Gila Face looked like she’d grown a foot of cheap hair. Either that, or she’d joined the Hair Club for Women.

  “How’re you doing, Weaverella? Waiting for that prince to come along and snatch that fake-ass horsehair out of your head? It probably looked better on Trigger. But then again, Trigger looks better.”

  She flipped me off with her eyes and continued scribbling nothing. Her hand shook, and a pulsating vein popped up in her neck every time I spoke. Today I decided to make my voice sound
like the dark, cartoon Batman. Deep and sinister, shopping for a victim of the night.

  “Where’s Daphane?”

  Brewster cleared his throat. “Gone for the day. She took ill. Phyllis is sitting in for her. Will you be polite to her? If you don’t mind, Harlem.”

  “Phyllis, the woman of my dreams. Oh, how I think of thee, Phyllis—right before I puke. Quick! Douse me with thy overwhelming atrociousness, you hideous canker. Infect me with thine—”

  “Shutupshutupshutthehellup!” Phyllis’s eyes watered. She rubbed her forehead, then fidgeted with her ear. Jumped up and sat back down. “Why do you dislike me? What have I done to you? I’m trying to help your crazy—”

  “I’m Not crazy. Never call me crazy. Never.”

  “I’ll call you what I like.” She smirked under her tears. “Mr. Certifiable.”

  “Phyllis,” Brewster said in a controlling voice. “Please.”

  “Let her go, Doc. I’m from the old school. I’ll rank on her ass until she ends up in one of these beautiful suites. By the way, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the room service. Can I get a room with a Jacuzzi?”

  I decided to cooperate, because if they came back each day, I could get information on Daphane.

  Today we talked about when I was in juvenile hall. Then about when I broke out and beat that old Asian man so I could get his car. Then about . . .

  Thirteen

  Daphane showed up four days later, just in time for my session with Brewster. After the pleasing session, they walked out. But Daphane doubled back a couple of minutes later. Before the door closed good, I asked, “Did you eighty-six your old man?”

  “No.” She looked at me for a minute, shifted side to side on the scarred heels of her nurse shoes as she pulled at her lips, then whispered a pissed, “I need your help.”

  “I’ll do anything for you, Daphane. You know how much I love you.”

  Daphane needed a gun. I gave her the name of a friend, Teryl, who I did some time with. He could hook her up real cheap. Something untraceable. Daphane said her husband was too big and she wouldn’t want the chance of him getting at her. Since she wasn’t a big woman and definitely not that strong, I told her to get a .380 automatic. Small. Easy to hide. Easy to use. Especially from close range. It could hold six plus one in the chamber. I told her to go pick up some hollow points, because when they hit you, whatever they hit explodes. Pinhole going in; Grand Canyon hole going out. Left you hollow. Internal injuries like a mugger-guggah. You could shoot somebody in the little toe, and they’d die from the pain. At least, they’d wish they were dead.