Authors: Stewart O'Nan
The Good Wife (12 page)
“Pats,” he shouts, because it’s noisy there—a wall of people jabbering so loudly in the background that she laughs.
“I miss you so much,” she shouts back, holding the phone close.
“I know, I miss you too. Listen, I’ve only got three minutes.”
But she has so many questions.
“Where are you?” she starts, almost hollering. “Are you okay?”
AUBURN IS SEVENTY MILES NORTH, AN OLD CANAL TOWN AT THE top of Owasco Lake. Patty starts off early so she’ll be there when the gates open. There’s no fast way, just the square grid of county roads; she has to go up and then across in steps. It’s Saturday so there’s no traffic except fishermen, and still it takes her two hours, cutting through Ithaca, curving along the shore of Cayuga Lake, past the leafy summer camps sloping down to docks holding white motorboats, families still asleep inside their cottages.
Beside her, Casey sleeps in his carrier, his head cushioned by folded diapers. Her mother bugged her about taking him, but Tommy said he wanted to see him. The three of them need to get through this together.
The counselor she talked to on the phone mailed her a sheet of instructions, and Patty’s studied it hard. The first line says: INAPPROPRIATE BEHAVIOR MAY RESULT IN TERMINATION OF THE VISIT. It goes on to list conduct that won’t be tolerated, including “foul language,” “outbursts of temper,” “prolonged embracing,” and “straddling-type contact.” The dress code is all about sex. There are no tank or tube tops allowed, no plunging necklines, no tops that expose more than half of the back, nothing made of sheer material. No miniskirts, no short-shorts or hot pants (not that Patty would ever wear something like that, and definitely nowhere near a prison). And right after that, as if the one leads to
the other, it says: CHILDREN MUST BE KEPT UNDER CONTROL AT ALL TIMES.
the other, it says: CHILDREN MUST BE KEPT UNDER CONTROL AT ALL TIMES.
She’s dressed special for him, a summery sky-blue skirt and sleeveless top from Shannon that shows off her neck and arms, well inside the code. She’s brought a little ditty bag with makeup and some Jean Naté to spruce up in the parking lot before she goes in. She’s got Casey in her favorite hand-me-down from Randy, a sailor suit complete with a terrycloth hat like Popeye’s. They could be going to Sears for their family portrait.
Above the lake, eye-high corn lines both sides of the road; cows dot the hilly meadows. The instruction sheet doesn’t include directions, so she’s following a county map she bought at a gas mart. The country’s easy, just spotting route numbers at junctions, but when she gets into Auburn the streets are all one way, looping her around like a bypass. Before she’s completely lost she pulls over to check the map. Only then does she see the prison’s not on it.
The instructions don’t have a street address, just Auburn Correctional Facility, Auburn, New York, and the zip code—like she should know where it is (she should, she thinks; she should have checked before leaving, she should have asked the counselor over the phone). The sheet says the parking lot’s accessible from Garden Street. Patty searches the map with a finger. There’s an East Garden Street and a West Garden Street. Beside her, Casey’s waking up as if they’re there. The thought of asking someone on the sidewalk occurs to her—“Could you tell me how to get to the prison?”—and vanishes just as quickly.
East Garden Street is a major road. She goes right because it’s easier and looks for signs. After a half mile its name changes to Grant Street and she turns around in the parking lot of a closed Burger Chef. She heads west, past where she first turned on, until she’s driving alongside a pair of train tracks. Beyond them stands an old red-brick
factory, and beyond that, between the factory and a big smokestack, a long unbroken wall topped with glassed-in guard towers.
factory, and beyond that, between the factory and a big smokestack, a long unbroken wall topped with glassed-in guard towers.
The factory blocks her view and there’s traffic behind her so she can’t stop. The road angles off, following the tracks, taking her away from the prison. For a while there’s nowhere to turn. Finally she catches a right over the tracks and hits a dead-end, a fence with razor wire protecting a black canal that separates the wall from the sooty backs of factories. She has to lean forward and peer up through the windshield to see the nearest tower, a guard inside wearing a cop’s pointy hat looking down at her like she’s come to break someone out. She turns around and gooses it back over the tracks—too fast, the truck seesawing on its shocks—and tells herself to slow down. It’s not even time yet. She’s got a whole half hour.
She ends up circling the prison and coming around the other side on Wall Street, the towers looming right over her shoulder. NO PHOTOGRAPHY PERMITTED, the same yellow stencil says again and again. There are houses directly across the street with neat yards and garages.
Finally, a sign: VISITOR PARKING. She’s surprised the lot’s so big, and at the number of cars; it’s like a dealership, a field of windshields. There are no people, no mothers, no other wives shouldering babies. She snakes her way to the very farthest corner before creating her own spot, squeezing the truck in beside a dumpster, the bumper nosing an overgrown border of daisies and weeds. She puts her face on in the rearview mirror, sprays the Jean Naté strategically. Her hips are stiff from driving, her lower back; she stretches before dealing with Casey, and then is careful to lock up. Walking between the motionless rows, Patty has the dreamlike feeling that she’s late. It’s a long way, and Casey’s heavy in his carrier. She has to stop and switch arms.
Across the tar-seamed street, the prison rises square and stone like her old high school, shut up for the summer. There’s no one
hanging around outside, and she’s afraid it’s the wrong day. The front entrance is like a castle, two imposing stone turrets like chess pieces flanking a solid double door. Inside the spiked fence the flag hangs limp, the blue state flag just under it. Patty thinks her eyes are playing tricks, but no, standing on the very top of the main building with his arms at his sides like a diver is a statue of a Revolutionary War soldier. She looks both ways and crosses.
hanging around outside, and she’s afraid it’s the wrong day. The front entrance is like a castle, two imposing stone turrets like chess pieces flanking a solid double door. Inside the spiked fence the flag hangs limp, the blue state flag just under it. Patty thinks her eyes are playing tricks, but no, standing on the very top of the main building with his arms at his sides like a diver is a statue of a Revolutionary War soldier. She looks both ways and crosses.
The riveted steel door’s unlocked but heavy. She has to wedge a shoulder in and then swing Casey through. As she does, a tall black woman looms close and reaches an arm across her.
“I got you,” she says, smelling of fruity perfume. Patty’s startled—she doesn’t see many black people in Owego—but thanks her and ducks into the dull fluorescent light.
This is where everyone is, a smoky, windowless waiting room like a bus station, rows of orange seats bolted to the floor, an aqua and white checkerboard wall of lockers. A majority of the women are black or brown, and she quickly picks out the few men—standing along the wall so others can sit. The squawling of babies and the babble of conversation wake up Casey. There’s nowhere to sit, so Patty stands there, just inside the door, trying to hush him.
“You must be new,” the woman says, and Patty nods, a refugee who doesn’t speak the language. “You need to go to the desk and fill out a slip.”
They must be from the city, she thinks, making her way through the crowd, careful of people’s feet. She can feel them watching her as she passes, but in a different way than the guard in his blue uniform—checking out her figure, then hard-eyed, memorizing her, like she might try to pull something. There are too many little kids here for Casey to work on him. He shoves a form across the fake wood counter and turns his back to her, busy with a TV monitor. There’s a pen on a chain that doesn’t work. “Excuse me,” she says, and
without a word he spins on his stool and clacks a pen down on the counter. She sets Casey’s carrier at her feet and elbows the diaper bag around to her side, digging in her purse for Tommy’s inmate number.
without a word he spins on his stool and clacks a pen down on the counter. She sets Casey’s carrier at her feet and elbows the diaper bag around to her side, digging in her purse for Tommy’s inmate number.
The guard looks over the form like she might have left a box empty, then tears the carbon apart and pushes the pink piece at her. “Hold on to your slip. You’ll be called in the order you’re registered”—meaning she’s behind everyone here.
A brown woman older than her mother shoos a boy in his church clothes to make room for her.
“Thank you,” Patty says, resting Casey’s carrier across her knees.
As they wait, Patty plays with Casey and furtively takes in the room, noting the elaborate hairdos and fancy nails and loud dresses on some of the women, the spaghetti straps and sheaths and cleavage she thought were against the rules. They’re so young, she thinks; they could be all done up for the prom. It’s got to be at least five hours from the city. When did they have to get up to make themselves beautiful?
It’s time, and they let the guard know it. Everyone gradually stops talking. Mothers rein in their children as the whole room concentrates on the front desk. The guard checks his watch and then does nothing, setting off a round of muttering. Patty stays silent, too new to join in. The instruction sheet leaps to mind. She doesn’t want to do anything that might jeopardize the visit.
The guard checks his watch again and looks back at his monitor. The grumbling runs around. It’s like he’s taunting them.
And then he slides off his stool, stands at the desk and calls the first three visitors—by number, fast, rattling them off like a drill sergeant. One woman who doesn’t speak English is confused, thinking he might have called her. “Is this your number?” the guard asks, flashing the slip at her. “Then sit down.”
The door to the next room locks and unlocks with a buzz. Between
the groups of three stretch long lulls. As each goes through, the room slowly clears out, doughnut boxes and coffee cups littering the floor. The old lady beside her gets in around ten-thirty, smiling goodbye to Patty. Casey’s cranky, and she’s already missed an hour and a half. Tommy’s probably wondering where she is. Next time she’ll get up earlier. There’s no reason she shouldn’t be first, living so close.
the groups of three stretch long lulls. As each goes through, the room slowly clears out, doughnut boxes and coffee cups littering the floor. The old lady beside her gets in around ten-thirty, smiling goodbye to Patty. Casey’s cranky, and she’s already missed an hour and a half. Tommy’s probably wondering where she is. Next time she’ll get up earlier. There’s no reason she shouldn’t be first, living so close.
It’s almost noon when the guard calls the number she’s memorized. She grabs the diaper bag and lugs Casey’s carrier up front, keeping her purse handy to show their ID. The guard isn’t interested; he just needs to see her slip. Directly ahead of her is the tall woman who helped her earlier; she’s given herself a booster shot of perfume, and Patty thinks her Jean Naté’s probably evaporated by now.
There are four more guards in the next room, and a metal detector. Patty follows the tall woman, copying everything she does. She has to show her ID to get her hand stamped, but then the stamp’s invisible. The tall woman explains: it only shows up under ultraviolet light.
“No talking,” a guard says.
They take her change for the vending machines and count it.
“Please remove your shoes,” another guard orders. “Place any objects you have in your pockets in the basket. Remove all jewelry.”
She pulls off her wedding ring.
“You’re going to have to take the baby out of the car seat.”
The tall woman’s already passed through the machine. Putty’s the last one left. She’s surprised when the metal detector goes off with a staticky wowing sound.
A guard waves a black plastic wand over her, stopping in the middle of her back. It’s the hook and eye of her bra. It’s humiliating, yet Patty thinks they could have just as easily made her take it off.
No one helps her put the baby carrier back together when they
finish taking it apart. They stand there watching her repack the diaper bag, then stop her from adding the last two bottles. “You can only bring in one bottle, ma’am.”
finish taking it apart. They stand there watching her repack the diaper bag, then stop her from adding the last two bottles. “You can only bring in one bottle, ma’am.”
“Fine,” Patty says, and leaves them to go bad in a locker.
At the next counter she’s checked against the official visitor sheet. An older man with steel-rimmed bifocals who calls her Mrs. Dickerson carefully unfolds Casey’s birth certificate. There’s a problem with the hospital bill; it’s not considered a legal ID. She needs to apply for a Social Security card for him, but the guy lets her slide this time. While he calls up to have them send Tommy down, he makes faces at Casey, popping his eyes, making a clownish O of his mouth. He assigns Patty a table, telling her she can go right in.
The visiting room is like a cafeteria, rows of neatly spaced tables, a bank of vending machines to one side. The light’s brighter in here, as if they’re onstage, and there are cameras watching from all four corners. A letter designating each table hangs from the drop-panel ceiling. Hers is T. She sees faces from the waiting room, but also the men they’ve come to see, prisoners dressed in the same faded dark green workshirts and pants like a legion of janitors. Most are young and muscled, biceps straining their short sleeves, and she can’t help it, she wonders if they’re dangerous, if right here a fight won’t break out. Patty feels their eyes on her and tries not to stare at the dark tattoos on their arms. She follows the farthest row past S, where the tall woman and a man who’s large all over are lost in prayer, eyes closed, hands clasped atop an open Bible. Not five feet away another couple are practically having sex, the guy’s whole arm up her dress.
The table Patty finally sits at is scratched with graffiti—linked initials and pierced hearts, lightning bolts and skulls. She sets Casey on the tabletop. He’s grabby, clawing the air, so she breaks out his bottle. He holds both sides with splayed starfish hands, kicking
his feet as he drinks, and she worries, though it’s impossible, that someday he’ll remember this and hold it against them.
his feet as he drinks, and she worries, though it’s impossible, that someday he’ll remember this and hold it against them.
She needs to be upbeat for Tommy, and tries on a smile, but it feels false. Shannon’s always been the actress in the family. Across the room, lines of kids feed the vending machines, a constant clatter of change dropping through slots, the clunk of treats falling. It’s almost one; no wonder Casey’s hungry.
Visiting hours end at three-thirty. They’ve already wasted half the day.
And still she waits. She takes the bottle from Casey, saving it for later, then burps him on her shoulder, glad to have something to do. She feels stupid, the only one alone in the whole room. She couldn’t have been more than five minutes behind the tall woman, now sharing a vending-machine hamburger with her man. Patty wants to go back and ask the nice guard if something’s happened, but the door’s closed and she doesn’t dare approach anyone in here. Even if she’s allowed, she doesn’t want to stand up and call attention to herself.
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