Pages of Promise (23 page)
Tom felt startled. She put her arms around him and put her head down on his chest. “I have never been able to thank you,” she whispered.
Tom was disturbed. He put his hands on her shoulders, and she clung to him in a way that was not what he had expected. “Carmen,” he said, “you don’t have to thank me.”
She lifted her face. She reached up, pulled his head down, and her lips were soft and warm on his. She held him, and his arms went around her, but gently, not with the passion she’d looked for. He responded not to her sensuality but to her love.
Tom pulled her close and spoke very quietly, “You’re a beautiful woman, Carmen, a good woman. But you know that this isn’t right for us. Have I done or said anything to mislead you about that?”
“No–no.” Tears started in her eyes.
“None of us knows if we’ll find the love we look for. I think and I hope that you will. I know it’s difficult, but in the meantime try to focus on those great kids and on the love of the people around you here, even though it isn’t everything you want. It’s something, something good—it makes your life better, just as your love for them—and for me—makes life better.” He lifted her chin and looked directly into her eyes. “Try not to let wanting what you don’t have ruin what you do have.” He hugged her and released her, then he stood up and offered his hand and helped her up.
Carmen was puzzled. She knew there was some streak in this man that she had never touched, and she also knew that there was something in him that was not in her.
She studied his face. She had been prepared to surrender herself to him, but she saw that such a thing would not happen. “All right, Tom,” she said. Then she bent over and began picking up the quilt, adding, “We’d better go to the children.”
T
he prison was not as grim as Mona had feared. Perhaps she had seen too many old James Cagney and George Raft movies and expected something like Alcatraz or San Quentin—huge, cold blocks of stone, gray, cheerless, with all light shut out by stone, concrete, and steel.
When she got out of her car and stared across the parking lot, all she saw was a series of low, buff-colored buildings with high windows and low-pitched roofs. The November weather was cold, and she drew her coat around her and shivered. She noticed that flower beds surrounded the buildings, and she could imagine in the spring that the gay colors would lighten the mood. Walking across the asphalt toward the entrance of what appeared to be the main building, she had to stiffen her resolution. The thought of going in there frightened her. She shook her shoulders in a nervous motion, straightened her back, and walked toward the entrance. When she stepped inside, she was struck by the resemblance of the prison to a business office, for it was painted white, with desks lined along the walls, and men and women were busy at their office work. The only difference, she noted, was the blue uniforms that the personnel wore.
“May I help you, miss?”
Mona turned quickly to face a young woman who had come up behind her.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m here to visit my brother, Stephen Stuart.”
“Step right over here, and I’ll get you started.” The young woman smiled. She had a moon face, glowing skin, and was as pleasant as any clerk in a department store.
As Mona soon discovered, getting in to visit a prisoner was not quite as simple as if this were a hotel. She had to sign numerous forms and provide all the identification she had in her purse, but finally the preliminaries were over. “If you’ll go right over there,” the young woman nodded, “I’ll have one of the guards take you to see your brother. You may have to wait for a time in the visitors’ area.”
“That’ll be all right,” Mona said quickly. “Thank you very much.”
Rising from the plastic chair, she moved over and gave the guard the papers that the young woman had provided. “Right this way, ma’am.” He led her through a doorway and down several halls. On their journey they passed guards and inmates, who did not wear stripes as Mona had halfway expected.
She was led into a large room with banks of green plastic chairs against the wall and around the three tables that were in the center of the room. “If you’ll wait here, miss, I’ll get your brother.”
“Will we have to talk through glass?”
The guard laughed. “Why, no, ma’am. That’s not the way it works here. This ain’t a maximum security institution. No hard liners, really. You can talk with your brother right in here. Even have coffee if you’d like.”
A feeling of relief washed over her, and she paced nervously waiting for the guard to return. She sat down and began to thumb through the dog-eared magazines that were scattered on top of an oak coffee table:
Popular Mechanics,
Field and Stream, Cosmopolitan,
and several tracts from religious organizations.
She started when the door opened and came to her feet instantly. Stephen came in, and the guard withdrew and shut the door. At once, Mona went to him and put her arms around him, noting that he wore no uniform, rather a pair of jeans and a blue cotton T-shirt. “Stephen!” she said. He stood very still, and there was coldness in his expression. He did not respond to her embrace. She’d hoped that he’d be happy to see her. Stepping back, she said, “I’m glad to see you. You’re looking well.”
“Well, a vacation in a health resort does a lot for a man’s appearance.” Stephen’s tawny hair was cut short, and his complexion was pale. Seeing her helplessness and embarrassment, he said, “Might as well sit down. Would you like some coffee?”
It was something to occupy her hands and her eyes. “Yes,” she said eagerly.
Stephen walked over to the globular glass containers, picked one up by the plastic handle, and stared at it. “It looks like tar,” he murmured. “Probably been here since yesterday.” Nevertheless, he poured the black liquid into two Styrofoam cups, then asked, “You still take sugar and cream?”
“Yes, both please.”
Stephen added the condiments and sat down across from her at one of the tables. He watched as she sipped the rank coffee, and a cynical grin touched his lips. “It’s good, isn’t it?”
“A little strong for me,” Mona said, trying to smile. She put the cup down and twirled it with her hands, then lifted her eyes to him. “I’m sorry I haven’t been here before, Stephen,” she said.
“It doesn’t matter.”
His reply was clipped, and Mona nervously asked, “Mom and Dad have been here pretty often?”
“Pretty often. Dad comes more than she does. I don’t think she’s forgiven me.”
“I don’t think it’s that, Stephen. She can’t stand to see you here. It breaks her heart.” Mona tried to find a subject of conversation. It sounded stupid to say, “How have you been?” She said simply, “I don’t know how to talk to you, Stephen. I’ve never been in an institution before.”
“Well, this isn’t a bad one,” Stephen shrugged. “Not like some of the real tough ones down in Louisiana. I ought to be grateful.”
Mona saw the misery in his eyes and said, “I’m so sorry. Is there anything you need? Can I give you money?”
She reached for her purse but was cut off sharply.
“You’re not allowed to give me anything. Not even a book,” he said. “You’ll have to send it to me—but I really don’t need anything, Mona.”
“I don’t understand sentencing,” she said, putting the purse back. “You read about people getting sentenced to fifty years and then getting out in five years.”
“It’s a big joke but not very funny. I read in the papers,” he said, keeping his eyes on his hands in front of him, “about a man in Memphis who killed a woman. They caught him standing over her with a smoking gun, and he could be out in a year if he gets any sentence at all.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Now you’ve got it, Mona. Life’s not fair! I hate to break it to you, but you’d find out sooner or later.” As if he heard the harshness of his own voice, Stephen got up and stood over her. “There’s no point in trying to make small talk in a place like this. What am I going to talk about? What we had for breakfast? Cold oatmeal and bacon that wasn’t too fresh. What am I going to do this afternoon? The same thing I did yesterday afternoon. Go out in the yard and try to get a little exercise, read a book, work at a meaningless job.” He clapped his hands together in an angry gesture. “Go on home, Mona! Get away from here! Don’t think about me! There’s nothing you can do!”
Mona snapped under all the stress of this awful place and seeing the brother she loved so unlike himself. She stood up and leaned toward him across the table “Sit down, Stephen! I came here to visit, and
I am going to visit!”
The tension was broken. Stephen seemed to relax. He sat down again and managed his first real smile. “Well, go ahead and visit. James Dean died last month. How about that? All that money and fame—and now what good does it do him?”
Mona sat down and they talked about Dean. The young actor had been idolized by millions—and his untimely death had affected Stephen. Mona was surprised to discover that her brother had thoughts about life and death that she’d never known.
He changed the subject. “Tell me what’s going on with the family.” They talked steadily for an hour. They drained the coffeepot, a guard came in and made fresh coffee, and finally it was time for her to go.
“Don’t give up hope, Stephen. You’re young, and all the family’s praying that you’ll get out as soon as possible. You can start all over again.”
His anger resurfaced. “Oh, sure. All of us criminals start all over again. Maybe I can start an import business—bringing in heroin from Hong Kong,” he said bitterly. “Narcotics is a business with a big future.”
“Don’t give up,” she pleaded. “I’ll write the folks and tell them I’ve seen you. Isn’t there anything I can give you or send to you?”
“Some books maybe.” He forced a smile and said, “Thanks for coming, Mona. It was a break in the day. It really helped.”
Mona came to him, put her arms around him, and kissed him on the cheek. She turned and knocked on the door. As it opened, she turned back to look. “Good-bye, Stephen. I’ll be back soon.”
“Good-bye, Sis.”
She left the prison, got in her car, and struggled to keep the tears back. “He’s lost everything,” she said. “There’s a deadness in him that I never saw in a human being.” She thought back over the conversation and searched to find something she could do to make things easier.
Amos Stuart had occupied the same office at the newspaper for as long as anyone could remember. He had gone to work for Hearst as a young man and had risen steadily to become one of the best editorialists in the country. He had written half a dozen books and had been a frequent guest on radio and television programs, for his wit and quick mind made him an interesting interview. He had been a friend and confidant of presidents, beginning with Theodore Roosevelt, and his access to the White House was a priceless asset in his profession.
A hazy sun streamed in the window lighting up the gloomy corners of Amos’s office, which had never been neat and in later years had grown disreputable. The walls were lined with books, the shelves double and sometimes triple stocked, with white edges of manuscripts and newspapers sticking out of every crevice. Even the tops of the bookshelves were cluttered, mostly with awards that he had won in his profession. Silence reigned in the room, and its single occupant sat in a rocking chair that had been made by his father out of stout white oak. The cushion was a patchwork covering filled with cotton and had been roughly sewn together by Amos himself. He said once, “I won the Pulitzer sitting in this chair thinking. I’m not about to get rid of it for one of those newfangled reclining outfits.”
The sunlight fell full on the old man’s face, picking out the seams and outlining the sunken cheeks. He had been a heavy man until two years ago, and then he had lost weight so rapidly that it alarmed his wife, Rose, and the rest of his family. He hated doctors and went only when practically threatened with a divorce action. He was dozing with his arm across his chest and his head nodding when a sudden stab of pain in his chest drew him up into an upright position. He groaned slightly, shut his eyes, and massaged his chest, noting at the same time that the fingers of his left hand were numb, as was that same forearm. He stared at the arm as if offended and muttered, “Here, this won’t do!” in a voice of irritation.
A knock at the door pulled his attention away, and he took a deep breath carefully, for there was something in his chest that was very delicate, and he felt that if he moved too suddenly it would all break like fragile crystal.
“Come in! Don’t beat the door down!”
Taylor, accustomed to his boss’s irascibility, stepped in and moved around to take the chair opposite Amos’s rocker. His sharp eyes at once picked out the pain in the old man’s eyes, but he let nothing show in his own expression. He had been aware, as had everyone, that Stuart was not a well man. He also knew that Amos hated to be reminded of it, so he said cheerfully, “I got the dope on the opening of the Tappan Zee Bridge in New York. Do you want to read it?” He extended a sheaf of papers, but when Stuart shook his head, Jake shrugged and tossed them on the floor beside him. He began to speak of other aspects of his work, aware that Amos was paying little attention. He half rose to go but slumped back when Amos lifted his head and spoke to him. “What’s going on between you and that granddaughter of mine?” he growled.
Jake grinned and shook his head. “Certainly not as much as I’d like for there to be going on,” he answered. “Why? Has she been complaining all the way from London?”
“She’s been talking to me.” Amos leaned back and made a temple of his fingers and studied them for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice sounded frail and reedy, not at all like the husky bark that Taylor remembered when he had first come to work for the paper. “I’ve always been very close to Stephanie. She’s a fine girl. I’d hate to see her ruin her life on some half-baked newspaperman.”
“So would I.” Taylor studied the older man carefully and then said, “You don’t have to worry, Amos. I’ve already made my play, and she turned me down cold.”