Walking the Dog (18 page)

“You never come to meetings,” she said. “There are subjects that could interest you: the health center, polemic writing and graffiti, visitors sneaking visits to sisters in solitary, drawings for our children on the outside. You really could get attention from the media. Weren't you sort of the Michael Jackson of the upper-class art elite?”

“What would I want attention for?” I replied.

“The injustices in this place. The slavery of women. Do you know that over half the women in this place are here because they were committing crimes for their husbands or boyfriends?”

I paused. She was five foot five and had a runner's body and short, cropped hair like Annie Lennox or Laurie Anderson. I craved her dexterity and energy.

“Do you really believe in all these preachings you give, Madam Sam?” I asked quietly. “Did you believe in what you were doing when you blew up the FBI?”

She paused. She was holding her temper.

“Why do you ask that?”

“I just wondered what it would be like to believe in something,” I said.

“Don't you believe in anything?” she asked.

My mind went blank.

“Color, maybe,” I answered. “Yellow.”

I was baiting her, but it was half-true.

“So, you just intend to waste your life getting nothing? Giving nothing?” She was disappointed.

“Try again later,” I offered. “This is it for now.”

“There's never a later,” Sam said. “The time is now.” I thought she was going to burst into song.

“You can kill me, but I don't care. In fact, I don't care if you blow me up,” I said.

She shrugged. “I've never met anyone who fakes being as cold as you. You've obviously never lost someone you loved or had your purpose in life taken from you.”

I didn't answer. I simply wondered if my lack of feelings was a pretense, or if I was missing some vital wiring in my brain.

One of Sam's campaigns was to improve conditions for those prisoners who were mothers or who were going to be mothers, to stop them being treated as “field workers in a starving, occupied country.” She had a son and daughter on the outside and was determined that their visits not continue to be censored conversations through phones or plexiglass. She
designed a family visiting area on paper. There was a stretch of land that was nothing more than an unnecessary extension of the workers' parking lot. It stretched out about four thousand square feet. Sam came up with a visitor building that was made from simple wood and glass. Inside there was a modest playground for kids (better than one of Leonard's), magazines, and nonviolent computer games for teenagers. Families could gather on various donated sectional couches and, if they needed privacy, there were small rooms divided off where other chairs and couches let mothers be with their children in a nonfrightening atmosphere.

Sam applied for state funding to build her dream, and when they turned her down she wrote a letter to the governor telling him he would be directly responsible for:

bringing up a new generation of juvenile delinquents in this world. Mothers may make mistakes in society, but they still can be strong, loving mothers. Children need their real mothers, despite their crimes, for a sense of identity and connection. Mothers who are deeply flawed can be more nurturing than law-abiding men who care only for ambition, financial gain, and reputation. Fathers are experts in neglect. They have no natural instinct for kindness and no commitment to the future of their children or the children of the world.

The letter was published in the
Village Voice
. Nonetheless, little attention was paid to it by the mainstream public because of Sam's criminal activities and her continued association with radical groups outside of Clayton.

So Sam got cadres of volunteers together from different gangs and religious sects, students and lifers, and went about
building the thing herself. Several of the volunteers who worked at Clayton reached out to the community and to other townships and acquired wood, glass, steel, tools, and cons from the men's penitentiary several miles away to help with the heavy lifting, though I tell you these women were strong. The women set up a drop-off called, “No More Benches and Phones on Plexiglass,” where the Salvation Army donated furniture, dishes, and decor.

I hadn't entered the underworld of motherhood yet, but I was told there was a committee headed up by several social workers who would work with Sam. They planned play sessions with moms and children to clear away some of the emotional dirt that built up over their separations. They were even in the process of planning sleepovers so a kid didn't have to spend intense, head-spinning visits with their moms only to return to empty beds in false homes: grandparents, foster homes, group homes. Sam had signs stuck up all over the prison that said, “Home Is Here with Mommy!” (I didn't agree.) Guards were strategically placed at several locations in the facility, but on busy visiting days their uniforms were khaki and casual and their firearms were concealed deep in their pants pockets. Sam's center didn't cool the rage among families in the grip of loss, but there was definitely more self-esteem in the women when they dealt with their kids.

Sam's other project was to provide doctors and advisors to the pregnant population of Clayton, which was made up of women who'd been pregnant or raped before they got there or by prison guards, but were too afraid to name names, as well as stupid idiots like myself who participated in conjugal visits without birth control. Sister Jean contributed to get Catholic funds to repurpose a part of the hospital into a maternity ward. Women worked through their off hours to sanitize the
ward, whiten sheets, and do mailings to acquire medical birthing materials, and Clayton Volunteers Inc. traveled around the US collecting incubators, cribs, and blankets, as well as special gynecological tools needed for delivering babies in distress.

I was fed up with the maternity center aesthetically, and intellectually falling to pieces. I needed control so I made a decision. For the first time since I'd been in prison, I called my parents. I told them to sell two or three of my paintings and donate the purchase price directly to Clayton to Sam's maternity center and be as public about it as they wanted. I refused to say any more to them. Despite the fact that it would put the criminal carnival back in the spotlight again, my parents did their best to sell to my most loyal collectors. Soon word got out, and Mr. and Mrs. Rosenthal were harassed by calls from galleries and dealers for days after that. There was an editorial in the
Times
asking rhetorical questions about good deeds and bad acts. Can one balance out the other? Can there ever be forgiveness? The answer seemed to be no. Which was fine with me.

The paintings raised enough money to hire midwives and gynecologists who would make working visits whether we needed them or not. The emphasis went from simply treating STIs to concentrating on the health of an expectant mother and her future.

I told my parents to sell a fairly well-known sculpture so we could use the money to get a sonogram for the clinic. And I bought incubators and infant-health specialists. I added a program of renowned surgeons who would be on call if an infant was born with a deformed heart or craniofacial disorder.

I pretended to be asleep whenever Sam came by my cell. I'd been avoiding her in the cafeteria and when I had grounds
duty on the playground. Other women were relentless in teasing me. “Buy me a Rolls, Mommy,” one said. “Jew girl, why can't you get us a bowling alley?” I was trying to learn how to tune people out so I wouldn't attack them. I hated solitary, so I stayed as isolated as I could.

One day I was smoking a cigarette in the recreation yard and Sam stalked up to me and slapped me hard across the face.

“Don't burn your hand,” I said mildly.

“What the fuck is it with you?” she yelled. “Did you need some publicity on the outside?” she sneered. “Afraid they were going to forget you?”

One look between us established the absurdity of that reasoning.

“You must've laid out over a million dollars,” Sam said. “And you just had the money wired to me care of Sister. Why? You don't seem to be developing a conscience. You haven't taken part in any other activities. You don't like me, but you saved my project. What goes on in that head? Why did you put yourself through all that? Why did you do it?”

I looked down at my feet a long time. I tried like a coal miner to dig out emotions or motivations. After a while I lifted my heavy head and stared into her serious brown eyes.

“I don't know,” I said. “I guess you were having all the fun.”

“Don't fuck with me, Carleen,” Sam snarled. “You don't know what I could do with your life in here.”

Somehow I was tired of this. The whole charitable thing wore on me. Once Sam had cooled to a reasonable temperature and all our metaphors seemed genuinely insane, we sort of smiled. “The fetuses of the world salute you,” she said.

After that rush of generosity, I quickly forgot about it and took to measuring up who were going to be my partners and
posse in Clayton to keep me alive. My temporary institutional protection was coming to an end. I'd managed to keep to myself and challenge no one. But I'd also made no friends, and I could feel the growing rumors and annoyance that I had special privileges without earning them. There were extremely strong hierarchies and signals among the inmates far more complex than at Powell. A lack of “respect” was interpreted as “attitude.” Mild dislike turned to suspicion. The challenges were subtle but difficult. Objects of mine were stolen or destroyed and the servings of my meals were cut in half. I was shaved or scratched accidentally. A storm was gathering around me.

The foreign whispers in my ear and slight insults started like days of light rain. But my real challenges and choices were postponed because I was pregnant. I didn't see the doctor immediately. I decided to take my time. I felt oppressed by the knowledge that there was another life inside me. I found it a little freaky. I'd seen
Alien
with Sigourney Weaver, and I carried myself with a sickly fear that a gooey little fist might punch through the skin of my belly and strangle me. I wondered if any woman had ever conceived a cannibal fetus and been eaten from the inside out. I was annoyed that, despite my myriad of beatings, stabbings, and injuries at Powell, I'd maintained the ability to conceive. Despite being big-boned and wearing less-than skintight uniforms, I still heard the rumors and mocking. More and more of the voices at Clayton were whispering, “Frankenstein's got her a baby.” I rarely thought about Leonard. When I did, I visualized him traveling around the world building politically correct “We Are the World” playgrounds. I wondered if he was going to carve one out of ice in Antarctica, or make a series of slides and teeter-totters out of mud and straw in the refugee camps in Honduras. I wondered when the real Leonard would appear. At times, I wished the baby
was Miko's because then there'd be a possibility that it would inherit those dark Samoan eyes and pitch-black hair. Miko was a maniac but he was the only person who caused me real pain. And pain was love. Not Leonard with that odd, slightly fake personality. Violence was what I understood as honest communication.

CELLO AND RASPUTIN

I maintained one Upper East Side client because I loved her dogs and she needed a cheap walker. Her name was Marianne Devonshire, and she had been a cellist with the New York Philharmonic. She was in her late seventies now, and arthritis had begun to cripple her strong, slim hands. She was of average height but still stood as straight as a ballet dancer. The tendons around her ankles were giving out, and the doctors told her that if she didn't wear orthopedic boots (they looked like astronaut shoes) when she took her walks, her arches would give out and she'd be a cripple. She found PetPals on her thick, old-fashioned computer. Marianne's pension was slim and she was very fastidious about her budget. She owned two black Bouviers named Cello and Rasputin. Bouviers are enormous in size and, unless well trained, wild in spirit. Her Waspish family had bred them and she'd owned them her whole life. Rasputin was seven and Cello was three and, until recently, she'd had no trouble walking or handling them. But with the weird boots and aching hands she'd lost control, and had taken a couple bad falls when Cello playfully leaped after other dogs in the street. Her children insisted she either get a full-time walker or get rid of the dogs. She'd never lived without dogs or an instrument so she found PetPals and called Hubb. He was going to explain
that the service concentrated on downtown Manhattan, but I couldn't resist making my workload more complicated and difficult. So I traipsed up to Madison and the Sixties to take Rasputin and Cello to Central Park in the late afternoons four days a week. I was out of place in the neighborhood in my oversized man's shirt, ripped jeans, and high-topped Converse, but the dogs were so huge and glamorous I was rarely noticed.

One day, I think the season was fall, I was on Madison Avenue trying to wrangle Cello into discipline. I heard signals, looked across the street, and saw a group of girls around ten or twelve years old gathered in a clump. They wore uniforms. Short green dresses with pleated skirts and thin yellow-and-red stripes. They were accompanied by yellow knee socks. I was remarking to myself that these were some of the ugliest uniforms I'd ever seen when I noticed a girl with long red hair pulled back tightly in a headband. We both froze. The other girls zoomed across Madison to get closer to the dogs. (And me, I think. I was an odd uptown animal). Myriads of questions and
oohs
and
ahhs
were hitting me like stones.

“What kind of dogs are these?”

“Are they friendly?”

“Can I hug one?”

“Where did you get them?”

“They're so big.”

There were seven or eight girls, but they might as well have been nonexistent and silent. My senses were concentrated on the redheaded girl whom I could see was desperately trying to decide whether to cross the street or not. If she did, I'd be too close to her according to the orders of the court. I could tell she was embarrassed by what I looked like. I know it would be impossible for us to pretend to exchange the spontaneous enthusiasm that was going on and on and on.

“Hey Batya,” called one of her friends, “‘fraid to cross the street?”

“These dogs are really cool. You could write a poem about them.”

“Batya, you look stupid there by yourself.”

The little girl didn't know where to focus. She caught my eye and immediately looked away.

“Batya, doesn't your dad let you talk to strangers?”

The teasing was a bit malicious and I could tell it wasn't new. I wondered if any of these girls sensed who I was and was using that to further torture her.

“Batya, are you allergic to dogs too?”

“Are you afraid?”

Cello and Rasputin were getting tired of all the attention and tried to hide behind my legs.

“Enough, friends,” I said. “They're getting a little freaked.”

“Will they bite?” a girl in sparkly lipstick and a chic Mohawk asked.

Immediately I imagined the dogs turning on the girls and viciously going for their throats. Or maybe I wanted to.

“Never,” I answered. “But time to go.”

“Batya!” one of the girls screamed. “Last chance, you little chickenshit.”

Batya stood straight and shouted back.

“Those dogs are beasts. Filthy beasts. I hate them. You're all assholes. Dogs are for people who have nothing else to do.”

She stalked off. I was proud. She'd stood up to them and managed to insult them, me, and the entire universe of dogs in the process.

As I walked away, I wondered how much bullying and teasing was directed at that snobby, intelligent little girl. I couldn't see her as on the edge of any popular clique. I wondered for
a moment if all the mess around me made her stick out at a time when girls were best suited to move in anonymous herds. I thought to myself that my fiendish notoriety had been going on for so long that by now everyone was used to it or bored. Her problems were her own now, not brought about by anything having to do with me, except genetic inheritance or her immune system.

Later that week I told Hubb that if he kept me on the Upper East Side I'd quit. The old lady was getting demented, and it was too much of a commute. I thought he'd give me a hard time, but he just called Marianne and gave her the name of an outrageously expensive uptown service. He was such a sadist. I called her back and gave her some names of NYU students who'd posted cheap dog walking services around the supermarkets and dailies. She said Cello and Rasputin would miss me. I'd miss the big lugs, too.

I didn't have any goals to become a better person. It was that same mental thing as with Sam. I didn't like it when someone was conniving and getting away with bad stuff. I wondered if I had the same perversity to undo a competitor's good works, turn them into bad accidents or ruined plans. Hard to know the workings of Carleen's bashed mind.