Black Dahlia & White Rose: Stories (28 page)

Cal had promised, he would only remove the jacket when he was in the classroom, not outdoors. But the guard insisted, he could not remove the jacket anywhere inside the facility, since he was wearing a T-shirt that might be confused with blue.

Furious, Cal zipped up his jacket. His lean young face had been suffused with indignation. Vivianne had felt for him the kind of concern—sympathy tempered by exasperation—a mother might feel for a headstrong son.

Now as Cal complained to Mick McKeon of the prison authorities and of the state legislature that had recently rescinded a bill providing state funds for prison education and rehabilitation, Vivianne only half-listened, in silence. She’d become a quiet woman, a brooding woman, one who
half-listens.
She recalled how in her old, lost life she’d been a lively and provocative conversationalist—she’d been a popular teacher and administrator—but none of that mattered now, and certainly not in this place where no one knew her name. She’d taken to heart what incoming volunteers had been told at the orientation meeting:
Don’t expect answers to your questions from prison authorities. Don’t trust your judgment and never rely upon “common sense” inside the prison.

This, too, was good advice. Vivianne had lost all faith in her own judgment and she could not believe that “common sense” had any relevance to the world she’d come to know.

In the Education Office they’d signed another roster—printed their names and signed and indicated the date and time—and again showed their photo I.D.s. And another time led back along the now rain-wetted wooden ramp, again passing close by the open urinal less than twelve feet away on the other side of the wire-mesh fence. Vivianne wasn’t a squeamish or even a fastidious woman—she didn’t think so—but she couldn’t imagine finding herself in such close proximity to men using the urinal just outside the Education Unit.

This curious awkwardness had not been mentioned at the orientation meeting though the instructor—a woman of about thirty-five, with a plain fierce face—had stressed the importance of “respecting” the prisoners’ privacy: not to ask personal questions, and not to share personal information.

It was crucial, the volunteer instructors were warned, to avoid “familiarity”—“over-familiarity”—with their inmate-students.

Never touch a prisoner, even lightly on the wrist.

Never position yourself close to a prisoner.

Never come up behind a prisoner unannounced.

Never engage in flirtatious banter with a prisoner.

Never give a prisoner your telephone number and address.

Never give a prisoner any gift however small. And never any money.

Never accept a gift from a prisoner however small.

Never deliver any message even a verbal message from one prisoner to another, this is a felony.

Mick McKeon was saying: “The area we’re in, which is the only part of the prison you will ever be in—is a ‘safety zone.’ It’s completely surrounded by this fence—twelve feet high, with razor-wire at the top. Only inmates cleared for classes are allowed in here through the checkpoint. And we are only allowed in here, through the checkpoint. At the end of your class which should be ended promptly at 4:30
P.M.
—no earlier, and no later—I’ll try to get back to escort you through the checkpoint. If I’m held up, I’ll send my assistant Dana. We can’t ask officers to escort us. Remember what you were told at orientation: never leave the men in the classroom alone, not even to look for me or Dana. And never walk alone anywhere—always be with another instructor or with an escort.”

Cal objected: “The men cleared for our classes aren’t ‘violent offenders’—that’s ridiculous. I thought it was policy, no prisoner who’s had behavior issues is cleared for the program.”

“These are prison regulations, Cal. Forget ‘common sense.’ ”

McKeon singled out a key from a ring of many keys to open the classroom door. Inside, the air was chill and damp. A smell of something dark, melancholy like the stirring of rotted leaves—Vivianne felt a touch of vertigo.

Thinking
I am strong enough for this. I have never been a weak woman—you will see.

S
he’d taught for much of her adult life. She’d been a dean, and even a college president—of a highly regarded liberal arts college in the lower Hudson Valley. Still she was on the faculty of the college though she’d retired as president after twelve years and now she was taking a much-postponed sabbatical in what she didn’t want to think, from a purely statistical perspective, might be called the “twilight” of her career.

No one knew her name here: this was relief!

This was freedom, and relief.

Vaguely the prison education organizers knew who
Vivianne Greary
was, or had been. They’d welcomed her request to be a volunteer instructor with an excited flurry of e-mails.

Since the state legislature had cut aid to prison programs, the program had to depend upon private donors. Vivianne would pay for the photocopying that her part of the course required and Vivianne would have happily donated books to the class—except there was the prison regulation, no gifts to prisoners.

“Not even books?”

“Not even books.”

They—the new instructors—had been bemused to learn that hardcover books could not even be brought into the facility, along with more plausible contraband—money, keys, cell phones, computers, tape recorders, cameras, wallets and purses, shoulder bags, any and all weapons and sharp objects.

Hardcover books, which with their “sharp” edges might be used as weapons.

And chewing gum—which might be fashioned, in some ingenious Smokey Stover–way, to thwart locks.

The classroom to which Mick McKeon had brought them was larger than Vivianne would have expected, and not nearly so dreary—two walls were lined with windows. Still, Cal Healy complained that the tables weren’t positioned for teaching—the room must have been hastily, carelessly cleaned, and tables and chairs shoved about.

Long ago as a graduate student Vivianne had taught night school at a branch of the state university in Yonkers, New York. Her Ph.D. studies were in political science and philosophy but she’d been grateful to teach remedial English and expository writing whenever she could, as her young husband had also been grateful for these arduous, low-paying jobs. In fact, there had seemed to both Vivianne and her husband a curious sort of romance, gritty, melancholy, exhausting, in such expenditures of spirit.

Of course, they’d been young. Newly married, and young.

Often Vivianne had had to drag and shove desks around, before her students arrived; she didn’t so much mind doing this now, as a way of working off nervous tension.

There were seven tables in the classroom, each accommodating six students. At the front of the room there was a smaller table, for instructors. A portable blackboard—that is a “white-board.” And on the floor, a podium.

On the wall beside the door, a clock with prominent numerals and hands. The time was 1:24
P.M.

“Your students will start arriving in a few minutes. Don’t forget to have each one sign the class roster at the start of class and at the end—they can just initial their signature, at the end.”

One of McKeon’s assistants came into the classroom carrying an awkwardly large cardboard box of supplies: yellow tablets for the students, white note cards, pencils, a copy of the class roster for the instructor and a copy for the students to sign. There was photocopied material to be passed out at the first class meeting—(material that had had to be cleared by the prison authorities, two weeks before)—and there was a small blue plastic cube, set by the assistant in a prominent position on the instructor’s table.

McKeon pointed at the little blue cube: “This is crucial, Cal—Vivianne. Be sure you don’t let this out of your sight and that you return it in the box, to the office, at the end of the class.”

“Why? What is it?”

“A pencil sharpener.”

“A pencil sharpener!”

The little blue cube contained a sharp piece of metal, like a razor that could be used as a weapon, McKeon explained.

“Your classroom supply-box will be inventoried. Make sure this pencil sharpener is in it.”

Cal laughed, as if he’d never heard anything so ridiculous.

“Our students aren’t going to cut one another’s throats! These are serious students, enrolled in the degree program. I remember from last spring—they’re decent guys. The last thing they’re going to do is fuck up getting out of here.”

“They might not cut anyone’s throat themselves,” McKeon said, “but they might sell the sharpener to someone else. That’s why we have to take precautions.”

Still, Cal seemed skeptical. Vivianne thought the precaution made perfect sense.

“I’ll keep my eye on it, Mr. McKeon! Thank you for the warning.”

A
t last, at 1:40
P.M
., the first students began to arrive.

Explaining there’d been a slow-down at the checkpoint—some problem with the guards’ break.

One by one, the inmate-students entered the classroom. A figure passing by the window on the ramp—in the doorway, a stranger—as Vivianne felt again that quick absurd thrill of anticipation, or hope.

And the immediate rebuke
He isn’t here. Can’t be here. What are you thinking!

Her heart beat painfully. A fine scrim of sweat broke out beneath her arms. Her black woolen clothing—a short, trim jacket, fitted trousers—was too warm suddenly.

Her black cashmere-wool coat she’d neatly draped over the back of a nearby chair.

She’d brought no handbag with her, no wallet. You could enter the prison with only a photo I.D., pens and papers, car keys, a handful of tissues stuffed in a pocket. Other possessions had to be left behind in a locked car trunk.

As the inmates entered the classroom they came first to the instructors’ table where Cal and Vivianne were standing, to introduce themselves, and shake hands.

This was a surprise! In all of Vivianne’s experience no students had behaved in this formal way. Not even graduate students arriving for a seminar.

There was
Hardy
, and there was
Athol
. There were
Junot, Claydon, Evander, Floyd.
There was an older man, an African-American with a creased dark face whom others called
“Preach”—
there was a limping older white man with a cane, in his sixties at least, with a soiled-looking skin, dented hairless head and an incongruously cheery expression who greeted Cal Healy with a firm handshake and Vivianne with a courtly smile and a mock-bow: “Ma’am, howdy!” His name was
Conor O’Hagan
which rolled off his tongue like an Irish stage name.

There was
Darl.
There was
Matthias
. There was
Yusef.

It was something of a shock—a pleasurable shock—to feel her thin hand gripped warmly in the hand of a stranger.

Do not hug inmates or engage in other intimate forms of physical contact. A brief handshake is permitted.

There was a lone, slight-bodied Asian boy with a shaved head and a squinting smile, or grimace; unobtrusively he slipped into the room, taking his place at the far left against a wall, not coming first to the instructors’ table to introduce himself. (Vivianne deduced from the class roster that his name had to be
Quogh Nu
which was—Vietnamese?) The most flamboyant students were a tall spidery-limbed Dominican with shoulder-length dreadlocks—this was
Ramirez
—and a heavyset Hispanic with a battered handsome face, mournful eyes and an affable manner—
Diego
.

Vivianne saw that the men didn’t segregate themselves in the classroom according to race but it was clear that they were sitting as far from one another as they could.

Cal Healy suggested that the men “come a little closer”—“to make it easier to communicate”—and the men laughed as if he’d said something funny.

Diego, who was sitting in the first row, explained that, in his cell, if he leaned his back against the wall and stretched out his legs—“like this, see, man?”—he could press the soles of his feet against the wall.

Meaning, their cells were so small, and these were double cells—naturally the men wanted as much space around them as they could get, when they were out of their cells.

Cal caught on, belatedly. A blush rose into his face. The men laughed, not unkindly.

“Oh yeah—right. I get it. Sit where you want to, sure. The important thing is . . .”

The class began, somewhat awkwardly. Cal seemed to be confused—looking through papers in a manila folder, searching for the class roster which had been removed from the cardboard box and set on the table. Vivianne located it for Cal, but when he took it from her he’d become distracted by something he was telling the students, and set it down absentmindedly without asking the men to sign it.

Vivianne saw a figure passing by the front windows of the classroom, outside. She felt an immediate visceral response—a small kick of the heart.

Telling herself
You must stop. This is absurd. He will not . . . this is not . . .

She understood: it was the logic of dreams. In a dream you have no comprehension of time, or plausibility; anything, all things, can happen in a dream. And you have no volition, you can’t save yourself from the folly of hopeless wishes.

Without a warning knock the door was pushed inward. A burly guard in a khaki-colored uniform stood in the doorway. At first he said nothing, but seemed, by the quick-darting action of his eyes, to be counting the inmates.

This wasn’t one of the friendly guards, clearly. The man scarcely glanced at Cal who was smiling awkwardly at him and he ignored Vivianne entirely. He asked for the sign-in roster which he wanted to check and when Cal was forced to stammer apologetically that he hadn’t “gotten around yet” to having the roster signed, the guard told Cal to pass the roster around the room and he’d wait.