by Ellery Kane
“Wait.” She walked halfway to the unit door when she heard him call to her. “Katie,” he said. “Katie and Levi.”
November 6, 1996
Her Wednesday, 9 a.m. suddenly went silent, the face at the door—now open—demanding her attention with icicle eyes that pinned her to her chair. “I’m in the middle of a session, Mr. Cullen. You can come back in twenty minutes.”
He took a step inside. “But it’s important.”
“Twenty minutes.” She ushered him out, hoping Fitzpatrick hadn’t seen him. A clear violation of the therapeutic frame, Dr. Keely. That’s what he would say. And he didn’t even know the half of it. The surreptitious touch of her forearm; his scarred, naked mid-section; his blatant admission of attraction. Every time Mr. Taylor moaned at her touch, he’d reminded her who was in charge. You make me crazy, baby. I can’t help what you do to me. But with Cullen, she couldn’t tell.
When the session ended, Cullen waited right outside. Clare felt certain he’d been listening. “How did you get in here?” she asked. He produced a ducat.
“I have my ways. I need to talk to you.”
“You interrupted a session. I have other clients too. Their time matters as much as yours does.”
He strutted into the office, no apologies. Sure of himself, as if she’d invited him. “I heard about what happened yesterday.”
Clare’s breath quickened. Her breakfast made its way back up, and she resisted the urge to run to the door and lock it. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” Cullen’s mouth hinted at a smile. “What did you hear?”
“I know you didn’t mean it. You were just saying it to stick it to Ramirez. But he’s not too happy about your calling him out in front of his homeboys.” Clare felt caught, the way she did when Lizzie asked about her first time. There was no way to explain. No way to deny. “I think I know how to fix it,” Cullen said so softly she could barely hear him. She opened her mouth, but the right words seemed to float away before she could speak them. “You don’t even have to say anything,” he assured her. “In fact, it’s better if you don’t. Just listen.” Clare could hear Lizzie’s voice, as real as Cullen’s. Her utter shock. Worse, her pity. Why didn’t you just tell me?
“I know things about him. About the EME. He has drugs in his cell. Heroin. Coke. They smuggle them in every month. He’s got some of the officers on his payroll. I know their names. You have to report that. Right, Clare?”
Fitzpatrick drummed the eraser end of his pencil against the desk. Tap-tap-tap. Clare despised the way he did that. “He thinks it makes him look smart,” she’d told Lizzie. “Like he’s pondering the fate of the world instead of wasting his last good years sucking up the benefits of a dead-end government job.”
“Geez, Clare-Bear. Tell me how you really feel.” She and Lizzie dissolved into an easy laughter. But that was last week. Before the dream. Before the yard. Before Dumas’ relapse. Before Cullen barged into her office this morning with something “important” to tell her.
The insufferable tapping ceased, and Fitzpatrick issued his verdict. “I’m glad you came to me, Clare. This is a sensitive situation. I assume you reminded Mr. Cullen of the limitations of confidentiality.” Clare almost laughed out loud. Cullen needed no reminding.
“Of course, I did. He understands the rules.”
“Then we have no choice but to forward Cullen’s accusations to the appropriate authorities.”
Clare feigned protest. “Is that really necessary? He could be making the whole thing up. You know how manipulative he can be.” The twinge of guilt surprised her even as she replayed Cullen’s goodbye, his strong hand cupping her shoulder like a small bird while she stood there, shell-shocked. His thumb grazed her clavicle. Don’t worry, he’d said, quieting something she couldn’t name inside her.
“We can’t assume anything,” Fitzpatrick told her. “But I’m relieved to hear you say that. For a while, I was beginning to think he was snowing you. All that woe-is-me BS about his childhood. You know, they say he caused those scars himself.”
She fought the urge to scoff and put on her sweetest smile, knowing it would seal the deal. “No snow here.”
“Only sunshine,” Fitzpatrick added, basking in her flirtation. “Let me call the Chief. He’ll get someone down here from the SSU to take your statement.”
“SSU?”
“Special. Services. Unit. I’m beginning to think you slept through orientation.”
She shrugged. “There’s a lot of acronyms to remember.”
“Maybe you were daydreaming about someone special?” He stared at Neal’s ruby. “A boyfriend?” Clare knew what he wanted, and she gave it to him. She needed him on her side for now.
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Oh. It’s not my business anyway, I suppose.”
You suppose right, asshole. “I don’t mind you asking. It’s not a secret.”
“Well, in that case, I’m newly divorced.” He held out his ringless left hand, wriggling his third finger. “Free at last!”
“Congratulations.” Clare wondered how far it would bend before it broke.
November 7, 1996
The instant the taillights vanished from her rearview mirror, Clare thrust her head back against the seat of her car, then screamed until her throat was raw. It wasn’t the first time she’d tried to jar loose the memory, send it skittering through her brain on a collision course with death. She’d done this before, years ago. The day after. Skull to the headboard until she felt dizzy. But memories can’t be murdered, can’t be beaten out. And some memories are stains. Red wine on her favorite white cotton dress. Blood on her panties.
She’d last laid eyes on Rodney Taylor the day he broke his promise. May 30, 1985. “Who was that guy you were talking to?” he asked as she slid into the passenger seat, his hand already rubbing her bare leg. They were three blocks from the school behind the vacant movie theater, and they had to be careful since Lisa had told her mom she’d seen Clare riding with him. He was just giving me a lift home, she’d told Lisa, shrugging it off like it was nothing.
She’d gotten good at that. Acting happy-go-lucky. “Who? Mike? He’s nobody. Were you watching me?”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
“No,” Clare admitted, wishing he was. Wishing she had the guts to lie and say yes. Wishing she wasn’t such a spineless loser.
“Don’t lie to me.” He squeezed her thigh until it hurt, then laced his hand behind her neck pulling her toward him. “I’m jealous, baby. I’m greedy. I want you all to myself.” His breath was hot against her skin. “You didn’t let him do this, did you?” His fingers were up her dress, inside her. “Because it would destroy me.”
She pushed him off. Her first mistake. “We were just talking. Relax.” Her second.
“Relax? What is that supposed to mean?” He grabbed her wrist, cuffing it with his hand.
“You’re acting crazy. Are you drunk?” He reeked of wine from a half-empty bottle stashed on the floorboard. “It’s not like we’re a couple.” And that was her third. Her fatal error.
“We’re not?” He winced like she’d kicked him in the stomach. Until that moment, she didn’t really know there was no end to this. Unless she made one. This was all her fault. Her curse was her power. Her power was her curse.
“You’re married. And I’m fifteen. What do you think?”
His eyes seemed to darken like rot. “I think you’re screwing him.” All her words—No! Please! Stop! I’m sorry!—dead-ended into his palm that smelled like aftershave. His words came instead. “You ungrateful little slut. I should’ve done this a long time ago.” After that she gave up fighting, and REO Speedwagon took over from the radio. Cause I can’t fight this feeling anymore. I’ve forgotten what I started fighting for . . .
The worst part was later. He poured a splash of wine into two paper cups, putting one in her trembling hand. “I’m sorry I called you a name. I love you, Clarie.” It spilled down the front o
f her dress, and she laughed so she wouldn’t cry.
The last time she saw Rodney Taylor, he raped her. The next morning, her mother put her on a bus to Los Angeles to spend the summer with her cousin. For the whole seven-hour ride, Clare feared the worst. Her mother had found the dress, the panties balled in her closet behind a stack of board games. Looking back, wasn’t that what she wanted?
Turned out, she’d given her mom too much credit. I met someone, and we need a little alone time, she’d told Clare, her voice almost inaudible on the scratchy payphone. Lizzie wrote her. Lisa’s mom finally gave her pervy stepdad the boot. Apparently, he was having an affair.
And then, today. At the coffee shop, waiting for Lizzie. He saw her first.
“Clare? Clare Keely? Is that you?” Like she was an old friend he hadn’t seen in a while. She held on to the counter thinking the ground might crack beneath her. Thinking her heart might stop the way a clock would in an old fable—at the exact moment of its maker’s death. “It is you. Wow. What’s it been? Ten years?” But the ground didn’t crack. And her heart kept beating.
“Hi, Rodney.” She didn’t want to look at him, but there was nowhere else to put her eyes. He wasn’t exactly how she remembered. Smaller now, it seemed. Less capable. Just a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a potbelly.
“Geez, you look great. You always were stunning.” He patted her forearm. And she swore it burned. “How are you?”
She imagined this so many times, it felt like déjà vu. How she’d stand her ground, dry-eyed, and calmly tell him to go fuck himself. But not before he knew the price she paid to keep his secret. The parts of herself she’d excised for him. The parts she put in a hole and covered with dirt. “Fine. I’m fine.”
“That’s great.” He produced a card from his wallet. Rodney M. Taylor, Owner. Green River Trucking. In her palm, it felt like a razor. “Hey, if you ever want to catch up on old times, give me a call. I just landed a big contract with San Quentin. You know, the prison? So I’m around here a lot. And I’m uh . . . divorced now, but I guess you knew that.”
Clare nodded, her head floating like a child’s lost balloon. “I’m . . . ” Angry. Homicidal. Screwed up. Confused. Not a teenager anymore. Not interested, at the very least. “ . . . running late.”
“Sure. Of course.” He touched her again, the way Cullen had, hand to the shoulder. Squeezing. “Clarie, what’re the odds? Must be my lucky day.” She felt her face grimace or smile, she wasn’t sure which. Her legs carried her out the door, leaving her steaming coffee behind. Rodney followed, waiting as she fumbled with her keys. “I’d love to see you again, okay?”
She was still fifteen. “Okay.”
After the screaming was done, she drove away fast. She couldn’t face Lizzie. If you ever see that prick, punch him in the face for me. Her exact words when Clare finally admitted it. It only took four years, three shots of tequila, and one game of Never Have I Ever. And even then, she’d only spilled half-truths, the ones she could stomach. She didn’t tell Lizzie she’d spent most of that summer missing him, the attention anyway. Who would understand that? And when her period stopped coming, well, she couldn’t even tell herself.
Halfway to San Quentin, Clare rolled down her window and let a whipping gust of air carry Rodney Taylor’s card far, far away from her.
Clare could’ve gone home and called in sick. But she needed a distraction. Besides, Dumas was still on suicide watch, and she’d promised to check in on him. She slipped into the bathroom at the prison’s entrance to assess the damage. Her face ghost white, but otherwise unscathed. Seeking relief from the dull ache at the base of her skull, she released her ponytail. A splash of cold water, and she felt practically brand new. It’s been twelve years, she told herself. Just let it go. Her therapist always used the words traumatic bond, which made her think of Elmer’s glue, the kind she used in kindergarten. As in, “It’s only natural you cared for Rodney, that you clung to him. He made you feel special, but he hurt you. That’s the very paradox of a traumatic bond.”
At least Ramirez had been taken care of. He and his cellmate were carted off to Ad Seg yesterday, after the SSU found ten bindles of heroin, a wad of cash, and a shank in their cell. Fitzpatrick told her he’d probably end up in Pelican Bay. All’s well that ends well. It didn’t matter how he got there.
It started to sprinkle a little, but Clare headed straight to the yard. She’d see Dumas, take an early lunch, and spend the afternoon holed up in her office, pretending to catch up on session notes. After flashing her state ID, Robocop stopped her at the control booth.
“Hey there, Dr. Keely. Lose your umbrella?”
“Something like that,” she said, trying to muffle her impatience. She couldn’t do flirty today, not after this morning.
“Want my jacket?” He tugged at his army-green rain poncho as she shook her head. “I’d hate to see you get wet.” His eyes wandered to her chest, her white button-down.
“On second thought, maybe I’ll take you up on that, Briggs.”
He whipped off the poncho, and she slipped it over her head. “J. D.,” he reminded her. “Call me J. D.”
“I’ll return it on my way back, Briggs.”
His shoulders slumped, nearly defeated, but then, “Want to wait until it lets up a little? Keep me company?”
Clare hoped he didn’t see the hard roll of her eyes. He seemed more relentless than usual today. “I can’t.”
“Did you remember to pick up an alarm on your way in?” Dammit. Of course, she’d completely spaced. Preoccupied by the man she most wanted to forget. That was the paradox of the traumatic bond. “I know that look,” he said, grinning. “I’ve got an extra here for you.” He held it out to her, teasing, then snapped it back. “You’ll owe me a drink though.”
“Keep it,” she said, charging through the door into the rain. It fell steady now, and the yard had nearly emptied, save for a group of shirtless men on the basketball court. Under the hood of Robocop’s jacket, she could look without being seen. Clare recognized Cullen standing under the basket, hands raised, demanding the ball. He caught it with authority, though it must’ve been slick by then. Leveling a defender with his shoulder, he turned and shot. The ball took a bounce against the backboard and fell into the netless hoop. Two points. Clare felt a secret thrill when he pumped his fist in the air. They were teammates now.
When she looked back, Cullen lay on the ground. For a moment, as silly as it was, Clare thought he’d been struck by lightning. He curled in on himself like a snail. All the men scattered. But one.
And time did its trick. The one where seconds unfolded at warp speed like a runaway film projector, yet somehow Clare plodded in slow motion. It was familiar to her, this trick. Mr. Taylor paper-weighted on top of her, pressing her lungs flat like airless balloons. He fumbled with the button of his jeans. His labored breaths ticked by for an eternity. And then, it was over. Or was it? Whatever part of her was still blameless, he destroyed in thirty seconds max. She’d crossed over some invisible line, though she didn’t know it then.
Clare fumbled for her alarm. The one she forgot. The one she refused. The hood fell back from her face, and she tasted rain and the rusty nail of her own fear. Her hands were wet and useless. When she looked at them, they were red.
November 8, 1996
“I told you not to come in today.” Fitzpatrick loomed in the doorway, shaking his finger at her. Clare was surprised when he noticed her sitting in her office, staring out the window. She felt like a ghost. Invisible, but tethered. To this place. To her memories. The cord to the past, forged in fire, unseverable.
“It wouldn’t do me any good to stay home. I’d just keep thinking about it anyway. How is he?”
“Cutthroat? That guy’s got nine lives. Lucky for him, it was raining. The shiv slipped out of Rivas’ hand before he could do any real damage. The question is, how are you, Clare? Briggs said you were pretty shaken up.”
She hadn’t slept. Not even a
catnap. She spent the night on a frantic search for the missing five minutes. The time she lost between Cullen’s bank shot and a seat in the Lieutenant’s office, looking at her hands. Her thin fingers, waterlogged and wrinkled. She even thought of calling Neal, but she knew what he’d say. You disassociated? I’m coming over. And then he’d hold her, which would lead to sex. Not because she wanted him, but because Neal was sturdy and reliable. The carnal equivalent of an oak tree. Which would only lead to Neal more in love with her than ever, a punishment he didn’t deserve.
“It’s not every day you see your client get stabbed.” Her canned laughter was unconvincing even to Fitzpatrick, as obtuse as he was.
“Do you mind if I ask a personal question?” It’s never stopped you before. “Are you in therapy?” Clare blinked back tears. “This job can do a number on you if you let it.”
“Are you in therapy?” A spark of rage warmed her. She felt only half-dead now.
Fitzpatrick returned her glare with a sympathetic smile. “You sound like my ex-wife.”
“I’ve had therapy, okay. I know my issues. I’m fine.” She was desperate for him to leave. Instead, he came toward her, leaning on the desk next to her.
“I’m not the enemy here. Whatever it is, you can tell me. You can trust me. I’m your supervisor, remember?”
“What do you think I’m hiding from you?”
He shrugged. “Do you know where I worked before San Quentin? CCWF. Central California Women’s Prison.”
“You think I’m a criminal?” She gripped tight to the arms of her chair and waited for him to tell her he knew. It was written all over her. Red hands, as red as any guilty man in this joint.
