In Trouble (2 page)

“Peter Morse disobeyed guards. Refused to stop political talk. Locked in solitary”? Or, “Peter Morse stabbed in the yard and . . .”?

Tight close-up on striped shirt with bull’s-eye on back. Picture fades to black. Camera opens in a wide shot of the whole prison yard. Tough-looking men in bunches, leaning against the wall, a dozen or so walking with buddies, most smoking, all figuring how to “bust out.” Camera moves in on one convict, alone, squatting by the wall. Dad. An inmate comes over to ask him a question, and he stands up. As he turns, you see the bull’s-eye on the back of his shirt.

That’s the movie I see in my head. And when I get to the bull’s-eye, I blink and pull my earlobe three times to erase the picture.

But believe it or not, I go to every prison picture, even if it’s playing an hour and a half away in Brooklyn.

I don’t go with anybody. Not even Stevie. A kid brother 8

who squeezes his pimples without thinking as he’s talking to you? No way. Besides,
Riot in Cell Block 11
, which was filmed at a real state prison, is hard enough to see when you’re alone. I don’t want to worry about what Stevie’s thinking.

The weird thing is in
Riot in Cell Block 11
the convicts are fighting for better prison conditions, food without rat doo, an end to overcrowding. Just the kind of political stuff Dad would get involved in. He is, after all, a political prisoner. Contempt of Congress they called his “crime.” Dad always said he had contempt
for
Congress and for Senator Joe McCarthy for trying to stomp on people with leftist politics.

“It was a hang-up.” Stevie came back into the kitchen and filled his milk glass. “And it’s Steven to you.”

“Damn it, Steeeven, you finished all the cookies!” I grabbed his hand as he was about to bite into the last Oreo.

“You know what Mom would do if she heard you curs-ing,” he said, pulling away.

“Selfish pig! It’ll make your pimples worse.” He stared at me. “You really are mean.” Ever since Dad went away, Mom says I’ve become grim. Absolutely not. Just realistic. After all, it’s four days till Thursday. Anything could happen. Brutal warden, brutal guards, brutal inmates. Anything.

Like going on a date, and you think it’s okay because he’s a
friend of someone you trust . . .

. . . RUN!

9

But I’m awake. I shook my head violently. “No more!” I blurted.

Stevie looked at me as if I were nuts. Then he shrugged and walked away.

Maybe I am.

10

3.

“Martha Conway’s gone!” Georgina paused after each word and then lifted her milk glass as if it were an exclamation point. “Gone!”

Carol looked puzzled. “Gone where?”

“Gossip. That’s what it is,” Kay was emphatic.

“Wrong.” Georgina said. “I heard Nurse Barclay tell our esteemed principal that Martha most likely wouldn’t make it back for graduation. ‘
It’s around her time
,’ she said.” Georgina paused to let that sink in. “And Mr. Shishkin said, ‘Just as well. I don’t know if we could allow her to graduate.’”

The chill of an official secret settled over us.

“Figures,” Georgina added.

We stared at her, and she sighed, as if talking to a group of elementary school kids. Since Elaine moved, 11

Georgina’s my closest friend. We have the same birthday, but we’re not at all alike. She picks up on things most of us never notice.

“Martha started wearing those blousy muumuus.

Remember?” she said.

That’s what I mean about Georgina. She’s smart, but also decent. The day Dad left for prison, miserable Gail Boseman was showing the newspaper article to everyone who walked by in the cafeteria. Georgina smiled at me in the hall. That’s something you don’t forget.

“I still don’t understand,” Carol said, somewhat irrita-bly. “What was Nurse Barclay telling Mr. Shishkin?” Kay’s fork was suspended in midair. “You don’t mean . . . are you really saying . . . preggers?” Georgina nodded. “She’s disappeared.”

“I heard someone talking about Martha’s college boyfriend,” Kay said, “but if you really mean
that
—that’s scary.”

“She went all the way,” I said and shuddered. I saw our cafeteria table as if at the small end of a telescope. Far, far away. That’s where I’d go if I were Martha, far away, a safe place at the small end of a telescope.

Run!
I’d tell her.

Martha Conway was a senior, a year ahead of us, but we all knew her. She was a cheerleader, and right away that made her a star. She was pretty, with an A– average and a boyfriend in college. There were always rumors about girls who got in trouble, but never someone like Martha.

12

“Oh, I get it,” Carol said with a hint of disapproval.

“
That
kind of trouble.”

“For Pete’s sake, you sound like Nurse Barclay,” Kay said.

It was true. No matter the reason you went to the nurse’s office, she disapproved. But period pains,
that
drew a positive response. “Better to get the curse than not,” she’d say.

“So you’re saying Martha’s at one of those places . . .

you know . . .” Kay paused, “. . . to give birth and then give it up for adoption?”

Georgina was patient. “That’s what I’ve been trying to explain. It has to be. If she’d done the other thing, she wouldn’t have had to go away.”

Georgina seemed to know things the rest of us didn’t.

“I heard about a girl who jumped from the second floor of her house,” Carol said in a remarkably calm voice.

We all, even Georgina, looked shocked.

“Not
suicide
,” she said, surprised that we didn’t understand. “She was trying to end
the pregnancy
.” She emphasized “the pregnancy,” as if it made perfect sense.

“No way I could go through nine months and then give it away,” she added. “I’d keep wondering where he was, how he was.”

“She could kill the boy,” I said and laughed. There was a dead silence. “You know, the one who . . . who did it to her.” They looked at me as if I’d burped out loud at a banquet.

13

“All I know,” Kay said, “is I’d find a way to take a train to my aunt in Arizona. She understands about this stuff.

She . . .” Kay lowered her voice, “had an abortion.” A nervous ripple shot around the table. When something’s illegal big-time, and you see headlines about cops breaking up “abortion mills,” you can’t help but hold your breath for a second. It was as if the word
abortion
had a circle of black around it, a dead-of-night feeling.

“I think a lady in my building knows someone,” I said quickly, blotting out an image of bleak and dirty rooms.

“Really?” Georgina asked. She lowered her voice and looked around. “Good to know.”

At least I think that’s what Mom and Aunt Sheila were talking about the other night when they said Mrs. Hanson in 6F knew somebody who “could help.” Georgina leaned into the table. “The thing I don’t get is, how dumb can she be, going to her boyfriend’s frater-nity parties every weekend? You’d think Martha’d know by now what frat boys do on those weekends.”
Not only frat boys.

“Hey,” Georgina said, “a big brother is useful for something.” She paused. “They drink a lot, you know, frat boys. You gotta be careful.”

“How?” I said with an anger that surprised me.

Who was I angry at? Martha? Georgina? Carol? Kay?

Me?

“Yeah, how?” Kay asked. “How can you be careful?” Kay’d been dating Herbie since junior high. Heavy 14

petting. “Boys can try to get those things in a package, but what are we supposed to do?”

I don’t date, so I don’t care.

Paul is a friend. A friend, nothing more, absolutely nothing. We both like movies and baseball and that’s it.

Okay, he’s editor of the paper and I’m on it, but that’s a work arrangement.

We did go to see
Marty
right after it won the Oscar for best picture. The scene where Marty tried to kiss Clara made a big impression on both of us. When we got to my building, halfway up the stoop Paul kind of smashed into my face and then raced away. But I swear he’s not my boyfriend. Absolutely not. I don’t want a boyfriend.

“What my sister told me,” Carol said, “is that they pull out.”

I froze.

Everyone else groaned. “Throw-upsville,” Kay said.

“Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? Carol continued.

“You remember that film in biology class they made us watch, ‘Motile sperm meets egg’ and all that stuff?”

“Timing is everything, they say. . . . But seriously,” Georgina said, “her parents must have sent her away.”

“My father’d kill me. That’s why I’d run away to Arizona,” Kay said.

“I’m not sure what my folks would do. Maybe ship me off to my dad’s sister in Keokuk.” Georgina took another bite of her sandwich.

Carol looked at her. “Where is Keokuk?” 15

We all laughed.

“Maybe Martha’s father has a sister in Keokuk,” I said, but by then no one was laughing.

“How about your dad, Jamie?” Kay said. “Would you tell him?”

“Hey, didn’t you hear the bell?” Georgina said. “See, there’s the caf monitor heading over here.” Times like this I’m thrilled there’s a caf monitor . . .

and Georgina.

16

4.

It’s not like we live in one of those huge apartments with a living room you could have a wedding in, or a dining room with a table that can seat twenty, or a kitchen a whole family can walk around in. Nope, that’s not us. Our dining room table is at the end of the living room. We can squeeze eight around it if nobody gains even half a pound.

And the kitchen, well, three rear ends is one and a half too many. But don’t get me wrong, it’s home.

So picture us all there.

“What is this,” I said, “
Waiting for Godot?
” But I don’t think anybody heard me. Besides, it was a cheap shot. Seven of us are definitely waiting for Dad in the living room, but unlike in the play, Dad’ll show up.

Aunt Sheila shook her head. “Not now, Jamie.” She turned to Uncle George. “What time is Pete supposed to be here?” 17

Mom looked up, bewildered. “What’s happening?” she said, as if she’d arrived late at a meeting.

“How about
Waiting for Pete
?” I couldn’t seem to stop myself. “For Pete’s sake, at least everybody in that play talked.”

Stevie snickered.

“But who knew what they were talking about?” Uncle Maury said. He was right. I didn’t get half of it.

“At least they talked,” I persisted.

“He’s got to find a job,” Mom said.

Uncle George shook his head. “What can Pete do? He only knows how to teach math. And McCarthy labeled him a Communist. Forget teaching, with that label it’ll be hard to get a job selling bubble gum.” Uncle George is Dad’s brother, so you’d think he’d try to be helpful. “Sometimes he’s a real creep,” I whispered to Stevie.

“That’s helpful, George. Thanks,” Mom said, echoing my thoughts.

She’d been going back and forth to the kitchen, mumbling something about coffee. You’d think she was worried somebody might climb in the kitchen window and sneak off with the pot. “Don’t take any!” she screamed at Uncle George when he headed for the kitchen. “Leave it for Pete.”

Everybody was milling in place. Aunt Sheila was knitting and staring at a blank spot on the wall. She didn’t look at the stitches, she didn’t look at Uncle 18

George or Uncle Maury or Grandma or Stevie or Mom or me.

Dad will come through the door any minute.

The key turned in the lock. We all stared at the doorknob. A split second of silence, and then “Pete!” “Dad!” over and over. Mom fell back in her chair, and Dad bent down to kiss the top of her head. Uncle Maury folded his arms across his chest and beamed. Uncle George slapped Dad on the back, and Aunt Sheila began to knit very fast, smiling while tears cleared paths through her face powder. She was looking now at Dad, not the wall. Stevie grabbed Dad around the waist from behind.

Grandma came out of the kitchen with a cup of coffee for Dad and a plate of rugaluch. “Apricot,” she said to him. His favorite.

Me? I sat there, looking at my dad who looked shorter than I remembered. He turned to me and smiled. A very tired smile. “Hey, kiddo,” he mouthed. And I started to cry. I rushed up to him and flung my arms around him.

I banged Mom’s ear and hit Dad in the neck. They both laughed. I kept on crying.

“You look good,” Uncle Maury said to him.

I never knew Uncle Maury to lie. Maybe he knew something about people getting out of prison, what it meant to look good or bad after months of being locked away. It seemed to me there was more grey in Dad’s light-brown-almost-blond hair. Was that a slight limp? Is he favoring his right leg? I’m not sure.

19

Camera pans slowly across the barbed-wired yard and comes to rest on a foot twisted at an oblique angle. Widens to reveal the whole leg.

Striped pants torn. Close-up of jagged cut. Cut to close-up of lips parted in agony. Widen.

Whole face fills the screen. Eyes squeezed shut.

VOICE OVER:

“Morse, get up!”

Inmate rolls to side and struggles to push up from left knee, right leg extended unnaturally to the side. Two guards walk slowly—very slowly—

towards the inmate. They’re grinning.

“
Zets zikh
, Pete. Sit down,” Grandma said, pointing to the big armchair, Dad’s chair, the most comfortable in the living room, the one we call the throne. Although we never talked about it, I don’t think anyone’s sat in the throne since Dad left. It was almost a game: could you avoid it without looking like you were trying?

Dad in the big chair, feet apart, hands cupping the armrests, back matching the curve of the soft cushion.

Normal at last.

Run!