Walking the Dog (20 page)

PREGNANT AND IN PRISON

It became obvious that I was pregnant. Sam approached me several times to join her group for “mothers gonna be,” and I told her I would. But in my head I was pregnant, not a mother to be.

I was still a questionable inmate. Now and then I got provoked by a quick punch out of the blue, but I was mostly heckled. This was because I never fought back or talked smart, and since everyone I'd known at Powell had died or been injured, I moved through life as if it were a battlefield. Everything could wait. I was there for life.

I was told by my floor mother that Sister Jean wanted to see me. I prayed she wasn't going to kick me out of Clayton. The bathrooms, floors, windows, and dishes smelled, and laundry was a long load to clean, but I kept doing what I could every hour I had. I took over kitchen jobs for women. I was beating myself down. I listened to odd electronic music in my brain and hallucinated my Southwestern landscapes, the apocalypse, and everything in between.

I sat down in the appointed chair in Sister Jean's office.

“It's been reported to me that you're keeping all stations very clean,” she said. “You work from dawn till lights out.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said.

“You're pregnant.” It was no secret.

“Truthfully I don't know how it happened.”

“Did you use protection?” Sister Jean asked.

“No.”

“Well, there's your answer,” she said.

“I just thought I was so broken and rearranged inside that there wasn't a chance in hell my ovaries would work.”

“Funny thing about hell,” Sister Jean said. “Have you thought about what you'll do if you don't kill the fetus? That seems to be exactly what you're trying to do.”

“I'm not trying to kill anything,” I replied. I'm trying to cause an accident. A fortunate accident.

Sister Jean stared at me.

“What do you plan to do with the infant if you don't kill the fetus?” she insisted again.

“I don't even want to hold it or look at it. Send it out to get adopted by some hopefully rich, law-abiding citizen.”

“It's not that simple,” Sister Jean said.

“Why not?” I asked. I'd figured out this plan the moment I knew I was pregnant. I'd originally thought about requesting to sell the baby, but I knew somewhere inside that that didn't demonstrate the proper amount of reform on my part. Once again Sister Jean ignored me.

“There's a father,” she continued. “There's a living, healthy partner in this venture, and we believe he has a right to be notified and be part of the decision concerning the infant's future.”

“I thought I'd never have to face my past again,” I snarled at her. I was off-balance from an unexpected never-thought-about option.

“This isn't your past, Carleen. This is your child's future.”

She pulled out a piece of Clayton Penitentiary stationery and a pen and handed them to me. The gesture was an order.

“Write him now,” she commanded. “Write him so I can watch you and make sure you don't cheat.”

“What is this, the SATs?” I asked. I'd begun to shiver.

“Breathe,” Sister Jean said.

Dear Leonard,

I don't know what to say. When you performed your obligatory visit re: wanting a divorce, amid sobs and fucking, we conceived a child. I didn't do this on purpose. I can't think of anything I want less. But they want me to let you know about it. I'm all in favor of just putting it up for adoption. I'm sure the authorities here get rid of misconceived infants with regularity, and therefore will place it with a family where it will have a decent chance to live out its life. If there is such a thing. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's the Maryknoll or feminist stuff that goes on here that requires I bring you into this. After this, you will not hear from me.

Okay,

Carleen

Sister Jean read what I wrote. She whistled. “That's as warm and generous a missive as I've ever read.”

“Nothing from the past,” I chanted. “Nothing from the past.”

“Look at me, Carleen,” Sister instructed. “You did this, and I think with conscious purpose. Writing this letter is one way of facing up to your actions. Giving a life to this world is no doubt complicated, but not a curse. Some women might see it as a second chance for a beautiful redemption.

“I know you struggle daily with the question of whether
you want to finish out your life, but you have no right to impose that depressive ambivalence on another. You will join all of Sam's groups. You will keep this future baby healthy. You will do your best to wish him or her Godspeed into a world where there is great natural beauty, adventure, potential, and even other extraordinary human beings.”

“You're sounding awfully Catholic,” I said with distaste.

“No, I am sounding like a decent woman, and it's time you act like one.”

I slammed out of Sister Jean's office and ran as fast as my broken, bloated body could go. I ran around the huge campus. Up hills, on paths, workers' roads, between buildings. Exhausted and pouring sweat, I collapsed on the hill behind Sam's birth center and slammed my stomach with my fists, over and over.

Someone much stronger than me grabbed my arms and forced me to stop.

“You do that again,” Sam hissed, “and I'll set you up for attempted murder. Put you in solitary with around-the-clock suicide watch and force food and drugs down your throat. I've got a few girls involved in that lovely procedure now and, believe me, it's misery, Carleen. Pull your fucking self together.”

I was panting and tears covered my face—from pain, not grief. I thought I'd be strong enough to punch the little motherfucker out but, like a rock of soft lava, it held firm.

“I thought you'd be pro-choice—leftist, free the blacks, and all,” I gasped.

“I'm for abortion, but not the insane torturing of a fetus.”

Sam helped me up. She led me into a plain, one-story brick house. We went through a door into a ward of beds. There were about fifteen women in scattered locations with bellies from flat to full mounds. None of them greeted me, though
they acknowledged Sam. Sam gave me a bed at the farthest end of the ward. The white walls were plastered with more bright posters like in the health center with clichés like, “Our bodies, ourselves,” “We can make a difference,” “Love is possible,” and other catchphrases that embarrassed me. I was a criminal and a snob. I didn't believe in goofy sentiments.

Sam snapped one of my ankles into a thick restraint that attached to a ring on the wall.

“Until you can behave yourself,” she said. Sam wore beaten-down farmer overalls and a T-shirt underneath. There was a tattoo of a fist on her forearm, but otherwise she was clean and purposely plain, though it looked like she'd just bought a pair of bright-white running shoes.

“Make up your bed,” she ordered, throwing me sheets and a blanket. “Then rest yourself until lunch.”

She handed me a thick packet stuffed with magazine articles and laminated Xerox papers that seemed to range from practical child-rearing to psychological treatises on how childhood relationships with our families influence us from the moment of conception until adulthood. There were articles on the emotional effects of giving babies over to family members or setting up infants for immediate adoption. There were forms to fill out, from medical history to current state of mind. I didn't understand what the forms were doing there since Clayton was like Big Brother and the staff knew what you were up to before you did. There were several articles in my booklet referring to the rights and needs of a woman's body and even a mimeographed sheet on masturbation. Another on lesbian sex. Sam was certainly thorough.

Over half of the women in the ward were eighteen or nineteen, which led me to believe that they'd been pregnant when they were arrested. They were hookers who'd assaulted
or killed their tricks for their pimps. Or girls who'd muled for their boyfriends. Also, I'm sure there were more women who'd been raped inside Clayton than the place was willing to admit. Despite its high rankings and stellar reputation, Clayton stank of corruption. There were men in kitchen, mechanics, and landscaping jobs, not to mention the numbers of guards that patrolled the hallways, called out orders, executed discipline, conducted searches, and basically had free access to these women's bodies. There were surreal pamphlets in Sam's kit such as
Getting Past Rape
,
Avoiding Rape
, and
What to Do If You Are Raped
. There was a reporting system and a council. It was all very protective, honest, and stern, but none of it worked or was used.

There was also suicide watch, for which there was no pamphlet. Suicide watch was largely for those mothers threatened by the fathers who insisted on taking the newborns back into the filthy, violent, drug-dominated projects and would have treated the mothers cruelly if they'd had an abortion. Those of us being watched for suicide did shit like growing the vegetables for the oh-so-healthy mother meals. For weeks I had to go to Lamaze and birds-and-the-bees-for-adult-idiots classes, where the whole female body was laid out scientifically and revealed to be the mechanical miracle that it was. I wished I was back in the general population. Some of the women actually took pleasure in the idea that they'd be with their babies for several weeks before they were passed on to families or adopted. The breast took on the honor of being its own kind of phallus and learning how to squeeze milk into bottles was a class in and of itself.

I'd managed to settle down and had acquired enough pot so I'd stopped abusing my body and actually played little running
games with my fingers over the lump. I sang stupid songs that made the other women laugh. “My, my,” Sam said to me. “I'm surprised you'd be anyone's court jester.”

“I feel like a stupid ass,” I told her. “So I may as well act like one.”

One day Sam approached me, looking grim. “Go see Sister Jean at dinnertime. She wants an appointment.”

“It's my attitude again,” I said.

“I can take care of your attitude,” Sam said. “Sister Jean has other business.”

I ignored Sam and walked into Sister Jean's office. Before I could even take a seat, Sister Jean started talking.

“Leonard Salin wants custody of the baby,” Sister Jean said right out. “He called and said he'd pick it up when it's proper to take it to where he lives in Manhattan.”

My head felt like a volcano erupted.

“He wants to be the father of this child?” I yelled.

“He is the father of this child,” Sister Jean replied sharply. “Unless there's something you've hidden from me.”

“No, no, no . . . it's him,” I started pacing. “It's him. He's going to take this infant and bring it up with some sweet wife, but the kid is gonna turn out to be a bad seed anyway and somehow I'm gonna have to know about it. It'll never be over. It'll never get free from my past. It's got to have another identity. A foster place in West Virginia. A mother of three in Tucson. A gym teacher in Oregon. No, no, no. He can't have her, he can't talk about me. He can't explain me. I can't exist in its mind. It's got to end. The story's got to end. Stop him. Tell him that it's deformed. Tell him it died at birth. Oh God, no. This puts me over the line. Right over the line.”

“You don't think he'll make a good father?”

“Will he make a good father? What's a good father? Yes, I suppose he'll be fine. Super. Tops. He's a good guy. He makes playgrounds for God's sakes.”

“Then what's the problem, Carleen? SIT DOWN.”

I flew into a chair and sat at attention.

“The story goes on. Someone will talk about me. I'll be talked about to someone else. Photographs will be taken. The baby will be a criminal. The blood. The DNA. The whacked-out brain cells.

“On a horse farm the kid would have a chance. Not in my exact environment. Not where my history is easy to find. They'll tease the kid. And I'll know when it gets teased, tortured, and then jumps off a bridge. The bastard thinks he can get all my money. He'll lock it in the basement and buy a souped-up Maserati.”

“Carleen, you've got to calm down. You're panicked for no reason. We're simply talking about the rightful father of the child wanting his baby.”

“I don't want to give it to him.”

“You have no choice. We've looked into it. He's employed, perfectly fit—”

“What is this? The fucking CIA? We're getting a divorce! And I'm not allowed to know about all your little phone calls and investigations and meetings and decisions and strategies? Don't I have any say here?”

Sister Jean's voice went cold.

“Actually, no. You're a convicted murderer who has displayed uneven behavior and even less consistent good judgment. You have no choice.”

I went for her with my teeth bared. My hands were clamped open. I wanted to pin her and kick her with my knees and bite her self-righteous, goody-two-shoes, apathetic, hypocritical face. I felt like some bear foaming at the mouth.

“Albert,” I heard her shout, and then I was on the ground, hands cuffed behind my back. My head was pounding. What were they saying? More CIA? More conspiracies? More plans for their plans? More rearranging of the constellations? Nuclear missiles aimed at my bed? The story was going to go on. They were conspiring to create eternity. I was like Mia Farrow in that movie where she'd been conned into giving birth to Baby Satan.

PONY

I was on my bed in the birth ward. Of course in restraints. I had no idea what happened, why I was, where I was, or what I'd done. Vague images. Pinholes of emotions. Screams behind scrims. When I became fully conscious I saw that Sister Jean was sitting next to my bed. She was immersed in a mystery by Andrew Vachss, a gritty storyteller, but adamant about children's rights. People were always getting tortured and smashed up in his books. This was one weird man. Half-leftist. Half-Nazi. Why was she thinking of this now?

Sister Jean saw me staring at the cover. “An old pal,” she said, closing the book. “A real son of a bitch, but a great antihero.”

I was groggy.

“Did I . . . ” A very unpleasant memory surfaced.

“You tried to eat me,” Sister Jean said mildly. “We've got you on medication, which doesn't thrill me because of the baby. Your mood swings are wild. You're manic and self-destructive and God knows what else.”

“When is the baby due?” I asked. “I'd almost forgotten about it.”

“Any day now.” Sister Jean got up from her chair and spoke quietly to one of the cons who was a helper. I didn't hear the words. The sister began to walk away.

“Forgive me,” I said to her back.

She stopped, turned, and squinted at me as if she'd spotted a very interesting bird.

“You know, that's the first time I've ever heard you say anything remotely like that. We'll see if we can expand the spectrum of that phrase,” she said. “In the years to come, perhaps you'll learn to apply it to yourself.”

There wasn't going to be a second time.

I'd been beaten in the stomach and kicked in the back and kidneys so many times and had so many surgeries that I didn't register or differentiate between types of pain. I guess I went into labor because I was cramping more often than I usually did from my arthritis or stretching and contracting scars. At one point I felt the sheets turn into a warm pond, so I called out, as I'd been taught, “Hey, my water broke!” The prison midwives hustled on down to me and opened my legs like the trunk of a car and peered in.

“We can see it,” one of them called out. “Push! Push!” So I did.

For whatever reason, this slithery alien poured out of me into the arms of one of the women. I heard a few of them talking as they washed me and the baby and changed my sheets. The group was more efficient than tender, which went perfectly with my physical state. I felt like I'd been turned inside out. They'd been warned because I heard a voice say, “We have to put the shackles back on.”

“She has the reddest hair,” a voice said. “I've never seen such red on a newborn! Like a little goddess.”

“There's no reds in my family,” I slurred. “He must've fucked someone else.”

I paused.

“Put her on my stomach,” I said. “Let me see her.”

“We're not allowed to, Carleen,” another voice replied.

I didn't have the energy to fight. Then I heard a familiar voice.

“Let her see her baby.” It was Sister Jean. I peered down at my bloated, wet, smeared belly and there was this tiny turtle, a wormlike creature, with locks of golden-amber hair falling in all directions over her head.

“There's a name for that color red.” I tried to remember. “It's—”

The creature squiggled on my deflated skin. Her warmth was that of a wet, curled-up cat.

“Let me hold her,” I said.

“No,” a woman said gently.

“I don't think so,” Sister Jean said.

“Then let me name her. You tell Leonard what her name is.”

There was silence.

“Call her Pony. I want her to trot and canter and gallop and jump. I want her to take in the world like a pony. Innocent, you know. Agile and strong. She'll leap. Not limp. New to the world every day. But never chased and never caught. And never ridden and never put in a fucking rodeo like me. A wild pony.”

I fell asleep as the warm circle of life was lifted off my belly, leaving a light breeze.