by A. H. Kim
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
Beth glances over at the girls and says, “We can talk later.”
“Mommy,” Claire says, tugging on Beth’s shirt for attention, “if you want a Diet Coke or anything, just let me know and I’ll get it for you because you’re not allowed to touch money. It’s against camp rules.” Beth smiles over at me, appearing grateful that I prepared the girls yet chagrined that such preparation should be necessary.
“Now that you mention it, Claire,” Beth says, “I would really love a Diet Coke. Would you and Auntie Hannah go get one for me?” Claire is delighted to be of service to her mother, and Ally is equally delighted to be her sister’s shadow. I have no problem serving as the girls’ chaperone—I’m used to it by now—but can’t help but feel disappointed. I had hoped that Beth, having been separated from her young daughters for over three months, would want to go to the vending machines with them, to share in their thrill of putting the coins in the slot and pressing the buttons, to savor every precious minute they have together. Instead, Beth seems content to sit and be served. It makes me wonder whether prison has changed her at all.
After a couple hours of catching up, a uniformed guard enters the visiting room and announces that the Children’s Room is open for the day. The Children’s Room is in the farthest back section of the visitors’ building and looks like an elementary school classroom. There’s a cozy reading nook with upholstered armchairs and a shelf full of books ranging from classics like Green Eggs and Ham to more unusual selections such as Visiting Day and The Night Dad Went to Jail. There’s a play kitchen area and a selection of wooden puzzles and board games.
The most popular spot in the Children’s Room is the craft counter, which is staffed by volunteer Alderson inmates and offers a selection of seasonal projects for visiting children to make and take home: construction paper jack-o’-lanterns decorated with markers and glitter; construction paper Christmas trees decorated with markers and glitter; construction paper Easter eggs decorated with markers and glitter. Claire and Ally are amazed by their good fortune.
The inmate in charge of the craft counter is Miss Sally. According to Beth’s letters, Miss Sally is a former meth addict from a defunct mining town outside Wheeling, West Virginia. Prison is the best thing to ever happen to Miss Sally. It’s given her a new set of teeth, free antidepressants and three course credits shy of a GED. It’s also given her the gift of true love with another member of the Alderson Christian Fellowship. Miss Sally and Runaround Sue found each other at the same time they found Jesus.
“Why, Lordy me, look at these little angels,” she says. “You, little missy, look like a Precious Moment.” Miss Sally pokes Ally in the tummy as if she were the Pillsbury Doughboy.
“And you,” she says, looking at Claire, “you look like a plus-size Dora the Explorer.”
Miss Sally cackles like a crone, taking pleasure in her own wit.
“So, which project would you like to make?” Miss Sally asks after she has a moment to regain her composure. There are a dozen choices displayed on the craft counter sample board. “Baby Jesus in his manger? Santa in his sleigh? Or maybe the Three Wise Men?”
“The menorah,” Claire replies. She points to the construction paper sample decorated with glitter-covered candles. “Definitely the menorah.”
After finishing their craft projects and taking in a couple more rounds of the vending machines, Claire and Ally grow restless. Sam takes the girls outside to play on the swing set. Beth and I watch through the window as Sam pushes Ally in the little-kid swing. Claire sits in the big-kid swing, pumping her legs as hard as she can and soaring almost level with the top bar.
“Finally, a quiet moment together, just the two of us,” Beth says.
“Yes, finally,” I say. “So tell me—what’s going on? When we got here, the guard said the place was on lockdown.”
“Mary is dead.”
“Meatloaf Mary?”
“Yeah, when she didn’t show up for work this morning, Deb went to her bunk. And that’s when she found her lying cold, unconscious and covered in vomit.”
“Oh my God,” I say. Even though I’ve never met Meatloaf Mary, Beth has told me so much about her that it’s shocking to hear that she’s dead. “How did she die?”
“We don’t know. The COs put the place on lockdown while they took Mary’s body away. And then they started pulling people one by one for questioning.”
“Did they pull you?” I ask.
“No, but they questioned Deb for a really long time.”
Despite Deb’s fearsome reputation, Beth seems to have become friends with her. It’s hard for me to imagine what the two of them have in common.
“Do you think Deb did it?” I ask.
“I don’t know what to think.”
For the first time, I start to worry about Beth’s safety. Even though Alderson has a reputation for being a cushy prison—Camp Cupcake, some people call it—it’s still prison.
“Anyway, we’re running out of time,” Beth says. “I’m sorry to make you come all the way out here to talk in person. You must think I’m being paranoid.”
“I don’t mind,” I say. “It gives me a good excuse to bring the girls to visit. And you’ve got every reason to be cautious. The people who post on PrisonTalk say the BOP monitors all calls, emails and letters that go in or out of prison. Like the managing partner at my firm always says—don’t write anything down that you don’t want to see on the front page of the New York Times.”
“Yeah, I’ve learned the hard way that emails can bite you in the butt. So, quick, before Sam and the girls come back, what have you found out so far?”
“Well, my assistant librarian, Tracy, was able to find a lot of the case documents online. The docket card includes hundreds of items.”
“Yeah, the prosecution went balls-to-the-wall on my case. Depositions, document requests, motions, objections, you name it. No taxpayer expense spared to bring me down.”
“We found the government’s preliminary witness list,” I say, “which had a few dozen names on it, most of them unremarkable.” There’s a catch in my voice.
“But...” Beth says, prompting me.
“Well, I hate to ask this, but did you know Eva was on the witness list? That they planned to call her to testify against you?”
Beth smiles. “Yeah, I know. The feds pretty much copy-and-pasted my entire Rolodex. The final witness list included the whole family—Eva and Alex, Martin and Karen, even Sam. The prosecutors were ready to haul everyone into the courtroom. My lawyers said they do that to rattle us into settling. And in my case, I guess it worked. What else did you find?”
“There were a number of exhibits referenced in the pleadings, but we haven’t been able to find those online yet. They all seem to be marked confidential.”
“I’ve seen the exhibits,” Beth says. “Photographs mostly. We got the prosecutors to keep them confidential because they have minor children in them.”
“Minor children?”
“Nothing scandalous,” Beth assures me. “We just didn’t want the photos becoming part of the public record. What else have you found?”
“Well, um, that’s all so far,” I answer. “Tracy and I scoured all the documents we could find online, but we still haven’t been able to find anything to suggest Lise had a conspirator.”
“Never mind the official documents,” Beth replies, “I already know about those. What I want to know is what’s going on outside these walls. Is anyone acting strangely since I went to prison? Like Eva? Or Alex?”
Eva and Alex always seem strange to me, but I’m not going to tell Beth that. They’re her family after all. It makes me sad that Beth suspects her own older sister. Then again, I can’t help remembering that last night at Le Refuge before Beth left for Alderson, the silhouette of Sam and Eva in the upstairs window.
“Hey, babe, could you do me?” Sam says.
Beth and I look up at the same time, surprised by the interruption. Sam’s holding out a Band-Aid and an exposed elbow, which appears to be badly scraped up.
“I fell on the stupid walkway,” he explains.
“Go to the bathroom and wash it with soap and water,” I say, taking the Band-Aid from Sam. “Make sure to dry it well with paper towels. And I’ll take care of you when you get back.”
Sam does as he’s told. Meanwhile, Claire runs in, grabs the Ziploc bag of change and runs off toward the vending machines, Ally chasing behind her. I look apologetically at Beth. Minutes ago, she was so eager to hear more about my sleuthing, but the moment seems to have passed.
“Don’t worry,” Beth says. “I can wait. Besides, I have all the time in the world.”
* * *
It’s a long drive from Alderson to Le Refuge. As soon as we arrive, Sam makes a beeline for the wet bar and pours himself a double shot of Macallan to take the edge off the road buzz. I unbuckle a sleeping Ally from her booster seat, get Claire to grab Ally’s favorite stuffy, Olaf, and head into the house. Claire and I walk upstairs and lay Ally down on her bed. We strip off Ally’s wrinkled dress and dirty tights, and we cover her up with the soft pink comforter. Claire makes sure to tuck Olaf under the covers next to Ally. As Claire and I walk down the stairs, we run into Sam coming up.
“I’m going to bed, girls. I’m beat,” he mumbles.
“Good night, Daddy,” Claire replies sweetly. She tilts her face up to get a kiss, but Sam walks past her.
“Your daddy’s so exhausted he can’t even see straight,” I say. I give Claire a kiss on the top of her head as a consolation prize.
“You must be tired yourself,” I say. The two of us walk down the stairs and settle on the great room couch. “You want me to help you get ready for bed, or do you want me to fix you a snack first?”
“No, Auntie Hannah, I’m not even the least bit tired,” Claire insists. “Let’s get the suitcases out of the car and unpack.”
“Oh, sweetie,” I say, “I’m too tired to drag in all of our suitcases. Let’s just leave our stuff in the car overnight and your daddy will bring them in tomorrow morning.”
“But Christmas is almost here,” Claire cries, “and I want to wrap the gift I made for Daddy. I want it to be a surprise.”
“What gift?” I ask.
“You know, the one I made with Miss Sally.”
Claire and I run outside to grab our stuff from the car. Back in the house, Claire looks proudly at her construction paper menorah festively decorated with construction paper candles and gold-glittered flames.
“Let’s go up to the wrapping room,” Claire suggests, “so I can wrap Daddy’s present.”
“The wrapping room? What’s the wrapping room?”
Claire leads me upstairs, into Beth’s bedroom and the adjacent bathroom and past the sleek Swedish steam shower. Claire pushes open a door I’ve never seen before—could it actually be another pantry?—and reveals a room that takes my breath away.
The wrapping room is a large walk-in closet but instead of storing clothes, it’s outfitted with floor-to-ceiling shelves laden with rolls of luxurious wrapping paper and spools of ribbon in a rainbow of colors. In the corner of the room is a custom-built cabinet with dozens of individual cubbies. I open them to discover loads of tiny treasures: jingle bells, silk flowers, ceramic candy canes. There is an expensive-looking desk and high-backed chair, and inside the desk drawers are boxes upon boxes of personalized, embossed vellum stationery.
Claire opens a tall armoire that nearly overflows with handled shopping bags and stiff cardboard boxes emblazoned with the names and logos of high-end department stores and luxury goods purveyors.
“Can you get me that one, please? The pretty blue one?” Claire asks, pointing up.
“This one?” I ask, indicating the top box in the pile.
“Yes, that one.”
I pull down a flat, rectangular Tiffany box and set it down on the desk. I lift the lid off the box and discover, nestled in the pristine white tissue paper, the sterling silver frame I gave Sam and Beth last year for Christmas, the one I used my annual bonus to buy. It’s a three-part frame. On each side are two smaller photographs—one of me holding Sam on my lap when he was a baby, the other of Beth, Martin and Eva as young children standing in front of a Christmas tree—flanking the larger central photograph of Sam, Beth and the girls from a recent Lindstrom family summer reunion.
“It’s perfect,” Claire declares. She carefully sets the silver frame aside and tucks her construction paper menorah inside the box. “It’s just the right size. Now, what wrapping paper do you think I should use?”
I go through the motions of examining the different options with my niece, but my mind is racing with questions. Is there something about the Tiffany frame that Beth found distasteful, or do Sam and Beth have so much stuff they don’t even notice when someone gives them a gift? I think with bitter irony about the unopened boxes of embossed stationery tucked away in the desk drawers and remember that I never received a thank-you note from Sam and Beth.
Not for the silver frame. Not ever.
beth
fifteen
It’s almost midnight on Christmas Eve. I’m bent double over a toilet scrubbing the bowl with Ajax. It’s usually noisy in the bathroom, the tiled surfaces magnifying every little sound, but it’s dead quiet tonight.
“I know you like to get to work early, but this is crazy,” Deb says. Her voice is deep and booming.
“Shit, you scared the hell out of me,” I say, startled.
I turn around to find Deb leaning against the sinks and watching me. I can’t say I blame her; it’s the best view in the house.
“Insomnia, no appetite and now paranoia, too?” Deb says.
“Yeah, I’m a frickin’ train wreck,” I say.
I flush and move my caddy to the next stall.
“You talk to the doc about your meds?” Deb asks.
“I can’t get in to see him for another six months.”
“Ya goin’ through the change? ’Cause that’ll screw you up royally.”
“I don’t think so,” I say. “I’m still getting my visits from Aunt Flo.”
“Ha,” Deb snorts. “Haven’t heard that one in a while.”
We’re quiet for a while.
Another flush, another stall.
“How about you?” I ask to fill the silence.
“Whaddabout me?”
“How are you doing?”
“Happy as a clam. Actually, my clam’s never been happier.”
“Oh yeah? What’s your secret?”
“Testosterone.”
“Testosterone?”
“I’m not trans or nothin’,” Deb is quick to say. “I was just havin’ the worst hot flashes. Sweating through my sheets every night. The shit they gave me didn’t work, so the doc got me on this clinical trial.”
“A clinical trial?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“Phase III?”
Deb looks at me again in that way, like she either wants to fuck me or kill me. Or both.
“You sure know a lot about this pharma shit,” Deb finally says. “Almost as much as Meatloaf did.”
“My sister’s a doctor,” I reply.
“I saw you with your girls in visitation last week,” Deb says. “Must suck being apart from them at Christmas.”
“Yeah, it does,” I say. “You don’t have kids, do you?”
“Nope, got my ovaries yanked as soon as I could. Right after my third abortion.”
“I didn’t know you did guys back then.”
“Guys did me” is how Deb responds.
Deb moves her ass off the sinks and walks over to me. She’s so clos
e I can smell her pits. I look out the chain-link-covered window. A few snowflakes drift against the ink-blue sky.
“It’s starting to snow,” I say.
Deb stops staring at me and looks out the window, too.
The fluorescent lights overhead flash on and off.
“Five more minutes ’til lights-out,” a male voice announces over the PA system. “Merry Christmas, ladies.”
“Merry Christmas, Deb,” I say.
And then I get back to work.
* * *
I’ve always loved the first snowfall of the season. When I was growing up in the Swedish Ambassador’s Residence in DC, the first snow usually arrived in early December, right around my birthday.
It was late afternoon. Eva and I were on break from school and cranky from being cooped inside all day. The first snowflakes of the season began to drift outside the window.
“Do you think I’ll get a Småland dollhouse for my birthday this year?” I ask.
“It’s too expensive,” Eva says. “Anyway, dollhouses are for babies.”
“I’m not a baby. I’m ten today.”
“If you want a dollhouse, then you’re a baby.”
“Shut up,” I say.
“You shut up,” Eva replies.
I run to the kitchen to find my mother and tattle on Eva. She’s not there. I wander around the house looking for her. I find myself standing outside my parents’ bedroom upstairs. The door is closed. Mother says I should never bother her when her bedroom door is closed.
I press my ear to the door and listen. I hear murmurs but can’t make out anything more. I stand there for a long time, my head against the polished walnut.
I muster up the courage to knock. Not loudly, but loud enough.
I wait. I open the door a crack and peer inside. And then I see Mother lying naked on her bed. Her full breasts are soft and round. Her eyes are closed and fluttering. One hand is folded behind her head, the other is touching herself between her legs, which are spread wide, a triangle of tawny tuft at the center.
