Walking the Dog (31 page)

The ice and quiet began to take over again.

“It's the preferred way to live out this friggin' life. Right, Carleen Kepper? And they want you to teach the women how to train the dogs.”

“I don't teach,” I grumbled quickly. “I won't teach.”

“Why?”

I didn't answer. I couldn't say that it was too much contact with too many people. And that I didn't have enough words. I'd run out of them.

“I won't raise police dogs,” I said suddenly.

“You'll raise whoever the hell I order you to,” Phyllis retorted lightly.

She couldn't get off the bed by herself and I was shackled and helpless. I called and a couple nurses lugged her up.

“I'm gonna have that operation and get as skinny as you,” Phyllis huffed. “And you're gonna stop the fruitcake routine and train me an army of dogs unlike any other. You hear that? You don't want to live in the godforsaken Day of the Dead zombie hotel, which is where they'll keep you by the way. I just blabbed my head off telling 'em stories about people who gave up their first dogs. Made people more insane than you, if that's possible.”

“Thank you, Phyllis Gelb,” I said as she started to leave.

“I want you to give it a go,” she answered.

“I'll think about it,” I looked at her.

“You don't think,” Phyllis said, “you just do.”

I did as she told me to. And during the remaining years, we made a school for training dogs, and most of the inmates pulled it off fine. We worked every day, no days off, and I did well, though I don't remember any of my students' names. I only ended up in solitary two times and the hospital twice more. I stayed in the motion of dogs, and I found a permanent boundary between my hellish impulses and what was good for animals.

I don't know how it came up that I got parole. There were crisscrossing stories, and I didn't care enough to try to untangle them. Part of it had to do with a group of liberal lawyer types who took it upon themselves to review what they called “cold cases.” Work was devoted to murder convictions with insufficient proof, even though mine was an open-and-shut
conviction. But somehow my record fell into some young, overexcited feminist's hands, and she researched every second of my life from high school through Clayton and got some sleepy judge to agree that, contrary to four life sentences, my trial had been an unjust circus show. I was underage, I'd been set up, I'd suffered cruel and unjust punishment, and, most of all, I was severely unstable and that hadn't been taken into account.

That little spitfire, who was just out of law school, did all of this without even meeting me, but she got my sentence reduced. My treatment in prison was also taken into account, with pictures and statements primarily from doctors at Powell and Clayton. This was also the time when Powell went under investigation. As all this was going on, a long ago billionaire collector of mine offered to contribute toward a full workout area and nutrition program at Clayton. And there was another story that
People
magazine was going to do a cover feature on the dog training camp, which I'd built up. We produced up to fifty dogs a year. I remember some reporters and photographers. Another magazine story featured my murals on the cover, calling them “masterpieces as locked up as the woman who painted them.” Inside, a special foldout showed the walls and walls I'd painted during that psychotic six years. Which story was true? Did it matter? And then one day Jen Lee called me for a meeting and informed me that there was a possibility that in one years' time I might be released into the civilized population and I'd better watch my ass. She didn't look at me, played furiously with her swizzle sticks, and spoke tightly and quietly as if she didn't want to hear herself.

By the time parole happened (two years later? three?), no one seemed to have much of a problem, except they were
worried about the dog school. By then it was a self-functioning institution connected to the National Association for the Blind with civilian supervisors and ten to twelve expert convict trainers, even a waiting list. Phyllis Gelb was president. She flew in regularly and no one fucked with her. No one had anything to worry about. I was a founding member, but it had grown so much bigger than me.

A MYRIAD OF TEMPTATIONS

Job placement was impossible. No small towns had programs and the larger cities, like Albany or Syracuse, wouldn't go near me. I couldn't work for Phyllis because I wasn't allowed out of state. Word was, sections of the population at Clayton were furious I'd been paroled and the administration was dealing with a lot of attitude problems. Finally, under bureaucratic pressures, Jen Lee came up with the halfway house and the exemplary Lucinda and Hubb. I think she was testing me as hard as she could. Sister Jean showed almost no confidence in me. If I turned out to be a repeater, then it proved I was hopeless and not some kind of misunderstood head case. She believed I had it good at Clayton and should live out my time there. She believed that outside Clayton I'd revert to my destructive habits: stealing, speed, and violence.

“New York will have a myriad of temptations,” warned Sister Jean.

“I don't get tempted. It was about the voices and engines inside me that made me do things,” I said.

“That's probably bullshit,” she smirked. “But I'll give you the benefit of the doubt.”

“They're gone now,” I lied.

Sister Jean stared at me. “No, they're not.
If
they existed.”

“They bore me. They're stupid. And I don't need that rush anymore,” I said.

“That's more the truth,” Jen Lee nodded in approval. “I think I believe that. That's why you'll have to live in a high-security halfway house.”

“I know.”

“Do you think you can learn to make some friends?” Sister Jean asked.

“When I learn what one is,” I replied.

“You'll be vigilant about medication and probation.”

“You know I'm the one who follows orders,” I answered solemnly. “I've bought a notebook and made a list.”

“And if you start to slip . . . ”

“I have my probation officer, the name of a doctor, and your phone number.”

We paused.

“You look worried,” I noted.

“I'm always worried,” said Sister Jean.

“Because I'll always be a criminal,” I replied.

“No, because you have the fragments of a criminal, Carleen,” Sister Jean explained. “And it's your choice whether to glue them together again or throw them away.”

“Weak metaphor,” I mumbled. She ignored me.

“So, we found a job for you in New York with ex-junkies. It's about as far from ideal as I'd want. The warden gave you the details. And you know I'm utterly against this.”

She stood up abruptly and reached out her white, freckled hand to shake. I was frightened to touch her, to let go of her. Maybe jail was the only home I could handle.

“Get going, Carleen,” Sister Jean said. I was released.

“Goodbye,” I said, and walked out of her door. I didn't say thank you because I realized I didn't like the way she'd shown
up when she decided it was right and was unavailable when I was in need. I felt a drift of anger about her so-called straightforward way of helping me, with insults hidden in her advice. “People are complicated,” she once said to me. “And no more so than you. In some ways you're scarier than a run-of-the-mill killer.”

I tried to forgive her sarcasms and her complicity—in the painting of the birth house that nearly killed me, in my days in solitary and the psych ward, in the ECT, in the guards sneaking in and beating me and the others without reprimand. The unreported rapes. Instead, I tried to remember the hundreds of things that she'd said that had saved my sanity. But there was a sadistic coldness to her that prevented me from quoting her wise words in my head. I didn't say thank you because, in the end, I'm not sure she was a good person. Maybe she'd had an Androcles who had broken her heart.

On my way out, I took a route that went by the birthing house and family condos. The living conditions for visiting families had vastly improved but could so easily be taken away, too. Anything positive that got added to Clayton was to the advantage of the warden, Sister Jean, and other authorities, and was used as bait for improved behavior or as prizes denied because of the wrong attitude.

“Hey,” I heard a voice that made me stand at attention and want to take off at the same time. It was Sam. She always managed to hurt me one way or another. I cringed. Her cold, blue eyes were coated with tears. “I can't believe you're getting to go and I'm stuck here,” she said. “It really doesn't speak well of the justice system. But then you've always put on a good show.”

“You'll be out soon,” I said. “You've started all the programs. You practically educated every woman in the place.”

Sam's hands became fists. She gave the loudest scream I'd
ever heard. She was a hurricane of rage. “IT SHOULD BE ME!” she yelled. She leaped at me and slapped me hard across the face. I did nothing. She slapped me again.

“You can kill me so I'm not able to leave,” I told her, “but even in dying I'd be leaving. I'm leaving. You didn't win.” She punched me in my chest and stomach. I caught her arms and twisted one behind her back. “You're nuts with jealousy,” I grunted. “But you can't change it. Not with programs, lectures, book contracts, or honors power.”

I walked away from her.

WHAT IS NORMAL?

David Sessions's loft had a winding staircase to another full loft above it. This top floor must've been four thousand square feet and held the canvases he was currently working on. His paintings were so large that I could feel and hear the colors he'd chosen for his backgrounds. They were a light blue with pink, like the edges of a dawn in a chemical city. I didn't know what he planned to paint on them, but he usually did large groups of people in different situations on the same canvas: Shopping at Target. Swimming with sharks. Race-car drivers. Meth manufacturers. Ballet recitals. There had to be close to a hundred activities going on in each painting. And the detail was stunning, and ranged from realist to bombastic cartoon. In fact, our styles had often been compared. His canvases could at first seem like collages, but after a while a person who examined the painting could see the disparate pieces were oddly and inextricably connected. Were these people related? Was this a town? Was the whole scene being watched through a telescope? It was his mystery. His damning incoherence became one solid, beautiful world. In this way, he was truly a master and I couldn't touch him.

Behind David's canvases were three offices. One for Rosita Perlman, his dealer and manager, one for himself, and a
third office that his last lover, a nineteen-year-old video-game designer, had helped set up. When the boy left him, David gave him all the equipment and left the office with wires sticking out and dust gathering on the desks. The empty office would be perfect for We Love Dogs.

“I'm going to ask him,” Elisheva said to me. Within the week she'd set up a full office for We Love Dogs. I said nothing. Nor asked anything. Nor thanked anyone. Favors were a curse to me. I was afraid to ask for them because the debt would grow and I wouldn't be able to pay it back, to return the volume of my needs, and I'd start to do what I loved—steal. I insisted on paying $400 a week, which was what was left after deducting Elisheva's half of our earnings, the $300 for dog supplies and food, and $100 for my living expenses. I didn't need to eat much, nor did I like to. I had enough clothes since I wore mostly jeans and long-sleeved T-shirts to cover the multiple scars on my arms. I liked converse high-tops, but Elisheva said I was too old for them and they made me look dykey. As if I cared. But she took me to buy some soft, fashionable Nikes that were good enough for walking the dogs while also fulfilling my obligations toward downtown fashion.

I was alone most of the time, but this didn't bother me because my days were filled with dogs and their owners. And David started forcing me to go to Perry Street NA meetings with him, where he relished seeing and hearing the rehabilitation pseudoartist crowd. They were well dressed and self-righteous. I preferred lying, noninsightful criminals. I worked late into the night writing filing cards by hand. Each had the name of the client and dog, the address, how many times a week, how many hours, whether it was a walk or training or specialty exercise, and any idiosyncrasies about each dog or client I should watch out for. I had a bulletin board with holes and
hooks from which I hung keys and special leashes for particularly aggressive dogs or dogs that pulled me too hard. And on one tiny hook hung a pink, unexplained, broken-and-glued-together china pony.

Elisheva handled the phone and schmoozed the new clients. She'd bought one of those Barnes & Noble calendars sporting photos of purebred dogs dressed in high fashion and filled it with my schedule. Simultaneously, she was tutoring a whole slew of bar- and bat-mitzvah students, but her energy was high and being with me was her idea of an adventure. Truth be told, I didn't even know if she had any kind of emotional connection to dogs. But she did know business. And she was a master hustler. She worked hard to get word of mouth going for We Love Dogs.

I asked her if Batya had received my last letter, and she paused for a minute and said she didn't really know. She told me that Batya Shulamit was in the adolescent phase of finding her father stupid and ridiculous, so, out of spite, the little girl had told him about the letters and Elisheva's part in the espionage of connecting with me. Leonard fired Elisheva on the spot, but didn't call the Jewish, pre–bar mitzvah parents of uptown New York. Batya Shulamit was clearly exquisitely prepared and told her father that if he caused anyone trouble, she'd tell her teachers he beat her.

Elisheva found the whole thing hilarious, but I, on the other hand, was stricken by fear. I wasn't sure how vindictive Leonard would be. If he'd call the cops, a lawyer, the police, child protective services. I didn't know what could come down on my head from a legal point of view and ruin any chances of a positive outcome of my next petition. Sure, Batya Shulamit threatened Leonard with telling lies about child abuse. But was she protecting me as well, or just Elisheva? I felt strangely lost
because now I had no real way to get to Batya Shulamit except through letters that would probably be thrown out before they reached her.

“When did this happen?” I asked Elisheva. I held back a reaction of betrayal that I knew would scare the shit out of her. “When were you fired?”

“Oh my God,” Elisheva said. “Months ago. So many months ago. I didn't tell you because We Love Dogs was just taking off and I didn't want to stress you out more. I miss Batya terribly, though, because she understood the true meaning. I'm choking on Hebrew, Carleen. It tastes like gefilte fish in my throat. These rich parents. The bar mitzvahs with dinosaur themes. Or waitresses dressed like SWAT squads. The millions of dollars spent on the parties. I am sick and I am ashamed. It has nothing to do with the reason for the ritual. It has no relation to the beauty of Judaism. To community. To family. Ancestry. Keeping our faith though generations destroyed by madness. It no longer has anything to do with the beauty of the language and the metaphors for a truthful and moral life that appear in each passage. But Batya truly understood.”

“Understood what?” I asked.

“The search for true goodness. For God's light in a dark world. Don't you go cynic on me. Listen. She understood that her bat mitzvah was her welcoming into a world full of charlatans. Sure, she was having her teenage psychosis, but she never stopped studying, and quietly, when she wasn't worried about being popular, she continued to write and read poetry. She never stopped praying.”

“You never told me that. You never told me any of this.”

“She told me when Leonard fired me that it was better for me to disappear because the dishonesty of her talking to you through me was beginning to stress her out. Stress
her
out,
mind you. She said she'd get in touch before the bat mitzvah and we'd study in the last days. That I'd given her more than any teacher would dare. How can you stay mad at a kid like that?”

“You say this was months ago?” I probed.

“If there was going to be any trouble, it would've happened already,” Elisheva assured me. “I was so worried. But Batya told Leonard to ground her and leave you out of it. Like I said, if he got you in trouble, she'd tell the police he'd been abusing her. Poor Leonard. He's not a bad man at all. No father was blessed with the equipment to go to war with a smart teenage daughter. I think it's as hopeless as Afghanistan.”

“So this happened months ago?” I knew I was asking the same question over and over again. I just couldn't wrap my head around it.

“Oh, yes,” Elisheva said. “If Leonard was planning some conspiracy or if he was going to have us taken in for child endangerment, it would've happened already. I still tutor all of Batya's best friends, so there's not even an embargo.”

“Months ago,” I repeated. Batya Shulamit hadn't contacted me at all.