Behind The Wall: A Novella, Page 2

  Benson stared at her gravely.

  “Well, let me see now; I been incarcerated for nineteen years, and might get paroled next winter. I’ll have been in stir more than half my life. Ain’t been a whole lot of best days.”

  She blinked rapidly, then gave him a soft smile.

  “Maybe you’d like to imagine what your best day would be like?”

  He stared back at her, then nodded solemnly.

  “I reckon I’d like that just fine.”

  She smiled with relief.

  “Good, good. And the same goes for the rest of you. If you want to imagine your best day instead, that’s okay by me.”

  As we filed out of the room, Reynolds watching our backs like the answer to the Universe was written on them, the teacher gave us each a lined sheet of paper and a blunt pencil.

  “Write small,” she teased.

  When she handed me my paper, her smile slipped.

  And I can’t tell you how bad it hurt that she’d smile for every motherfucker in here, but not for me.

  Ella

  I FILLED A large glass with white wine from the fridge, kicked off my shoes, and slumped onto the sofa.

  That had to be the longest day of my entire life. It certainly felt like it—I thought it was never going to end. Dear God! What made me think that working in a prison was a good idea?

  I blamed my liberal, do-gooder parents, telling me I could go out and change the world, like some modern day Maria Montessori or Dorothea Dix. Although the extra pay and job security of my current employment was nice, too. Working in prisons paid more than working in a regular high school.

  But there were downsides. Of course there were.

  I was supposed to educate a group of men who leered and ogled each time I bent over, making sexist and inappropriate comments at every opportunity. Not only that, but I’d been given a bodyguard whose idea of warm and cuddly was . . .

  I shook my head. Officer Reynolds didn’t have a warm and cuddly bone in his body. Having him in my classroom had been a disaster. The man was a monster. And I mean that in the truest sense of the word. I could tell by the cold gleam in his eyes that he wanted to use that baton on somebody, instead of just rapping it on the desk every five minutes.

  Contrary to what he, and everyone else in the prison seemed to think, I wasn’t a shrinking violet. I’d survived six years teaching public school in Baltimore. Definitely not for the faint-hearted.

  And I’d started to connect with the men—I know I had. I’d listened to them and they’d listened to me. The Robert Frost poem had got them thinking, got them talking, until that baboon Reynolds effectively shut them down.

  I needed to talk to the Warden about having a different officer in my classroom. I knew that I had to have a guard—I wasn’t so naïve as to think I didn’t need someone at my back—but lessons weren’t going to work if the men were too intimidated to speak.

  I also had to consider something else: they might need what I could offer, but they didn’t want to need me or anyone else, and resentment was already high. They hadn’t volunteered for that classroom, they’d been selected, just as I told them. The Warden wanted to improve the prison’s dire record on education. But it was more than that: I didn’t want to fail these men. Yes, they were criminals, but I was liberal enough to think, there, but for the grace of God.

  I sighed. Studies had shown that correctional education reduced recidivism by forty-three percent. I could be a part of that.

  I was lucky to have been born into a middle class family where tertiary education was the norm, not the exception; where a college fund was started before I was a year old; where there was enough food on the table; and gun ownership was linked to hunting with your buddies on a weekend, not crime.

  I’d been fortunate, not desperate.

  I shuddered, thinking of the hostility I saw in the men’s eyes—some of them, anyway. Especially that man Garrett. God, the way he looked at me! Like I was a fluffy little lamb and he was the big bad wolf, ready to rip me to pieces.

  And he was a good-looking asshole, too. I’m sure that on the outside, he’d be one of those men who preyed on women—in the sense that he played with them—a different woman in his bed each night, no doubt. He was too handsome to be anything other than a player.

  I wondered what he’d done to get locked up in Nottoway Correctional Center. But Warden Michaels had assured me that it was better not to know what any of them had done. He said only the senior staff had that information, because that way it was easier to give everyone a fair chance, to treat them equally. Knowing what they’d done, what they were capable of doing, it would be impossible to forget.

  He was right. And Nottoway was level three security. They weren’t the worst criminals, but they weren’t tree-huggers either.

  On the other hand, if they were nearing parole after a long sentence, like Benson, who knew what serious crimes lurked in their past. Nineteen years he’d been locked up. Nineteen! I couldn’t imagine it and I didn’t want to.

  I shivered, remembering Garrett’s intense eyes glaring at me. They were so dark, they’d seemed almost black, and a startling contrast to his light, sandy-colored hair.

  I took another sip of wine, stretching out my toes and yanking my shirt-tails out of my waistband, unzipping my skirt and pushing it down my legs, then ripping off the constricting pantyhose, and luxuriating in the cool temperature of my air-conditioned apartment.

  Nottoway had been incredibly sweaty, and my shirt had been soaked. By the end of the first lesson, the back must have been almost see-through, showing my bra. I’d had to keep my jacket on all afternoon. I was definitely switching to darker colors from now on, even if that seemed kind of depressing.

  I’d received strict instructions about what I could and couldn’t wear: no makeup, no perfume, no jewelry, no skirts above the knee, no hint of cleavage. I wasn’t to give prisoners pens or anything not approved personally by the Warden. Pencils were to be blunt, because a sharpened pencil could be a weapon.

  I thought that one was a bit bizarre—any enterprising villain could make a pencil sharp, should he wish to do so. I shuddered at the thought of a needle-pointed pencil aimed at my jugular. But I was abiding by the rules, no matter how odd they seemed.

  I wondered what the men were doing now. Having dinner? Free time in front of the TV? Doing chores? I wondered what he was doing now.

  Of all the imponderables I’d considered before applying to teach a group of adults who happened to be incarcerated—and many disaffected—what I hadn’t expected was a man who sauntered from my classroom as if he was going for a beer after work with a friend. He passed my desk without a single glance, and I’d caught the faint aroma of sweat and cigarette smoke.

  He was tall with broad shoulders, but even the ugly orange prison-scrubs hadn’t been able to hide a runner’s whip-hard body. He didn’t have the weightlifting bulk that a lot of men turned to in prison; gym time helping to beat the boredom, but also useful for protecting yourself in fights. But his arms, when he’d crossed them in front of his chest, had been strong, the biceps bulging. Although most of the guys looked fit, even the older ones. I guessed that other than working out, there wasn’t a lot to do. And these men didn’t strike me as avid readers. Something I’d hoped to change, but now seemed like a vain wish.

  I’d caught him watching me once or twice, but always looking away quickly. Which was odd, because being the teacher and commanding attention—or attempting to—it automatically gave the men permission to stare at me. Most of them had taken full advantage of that, but not him. Which was one of the reasons that I’d made a point of checking that he was actually listening to me, and not day dreaming of . . . I had no idea what a man like that dreamed about. I probably didn’t want to know.

  But every now and then, I’d caught a glimpse. His sandy hair was at least three months past needing a haircut, and curled over his collar, dropping across his face, hiding and revealing those dark, dangerous eyes.<
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  I shook my head, as if the action could shake loose the disturbing image. I pushed the thought away. I had a date this evening and I needed to get ready.

  I wished I hadn’t agreed to meet my best friend Becky for a drink, but at the time she’d suggested it, I thought it would be nice to have something to look forward to after a day spent teaching prisoners. But now all I wanted to do was have a long soak in a hot bath and crawl into bed in my most comfortable and aged pajamas.

  Two hours later, I perked up considerably when I saw her sitting at a table in our favorite bar, two Mimosas in front of her.

  Her eyes brightened when she saw me, and she leapt up to give me her usual bone-crushing hug.

  “Yay! You survived your first day!” she cheered. “I bought Mimosas to celebrate. So how was it? Are you going back for day two?”

  I laughed, the pressure of the day falling away.

  “It was . . . different. Definitely an experience. And challenging . . . very challenging.”

  “But you’re going back?”

  “Yes, I can really make a difference teaching these men. If I do my job right, they could actually leave prison with their high school diplomas. It could be the fresh start they need.”

  She raised one eyebrow.

  “You can do that in public school—it doesn’t have to be in a prison.”

  “I know . . . it’s just . . . I feel like the system failed these guys once and . . . I don’t know . . .” I sighed. “Bleeding heart liberal—I blame my parents.”

  Becky gave me a half-smile.

  “Just don’t have too high expectations. Yes, the system fails some people, but some people choose to fail. You can’t save the whole world, Ella.”

  “I know. I sound incredibly naïve, but that’s how I feel about it. Anyway, I’m going to give it a go. If it doesn’t work out, I won’t be afraid to walk.”

  Becky looked skeptical.

  “El, I’ve known you ten years—in that time, you’ve never given up on anything you set your mind to.”

  I gave a dry laugh.

  “There’s always a first time.”

  “Yes, there is. No one is going to say ‘I told you so’.”

  I laughed even louder at that.

  “Okay, fine. Everyone you know is going to say it.” She sighed. “Just be smart about it. Do you have a guard with you? They’re protecting you, right?”

  I rolled my eyes and let out a groan.

  “Ye-es! But the corrections officer they gave me is scarier than most of the inmates. He interrupts my lessons every five minutes by rapping his baton on the desk, and he called them ‘animals’ in front of them! I can’t teach with him around. I’m going to ask for someone else.”

  Becky looked dismayed.

  “He really called them animals?”

  “Yes! It was horrible. He said I had to let them know who’s boss.”

  “Well, he’s not wrong about that . . . are they animals?”

  “Becky!”

  “I’m just asking!”

  “They were mostly pretty well behaved. A bit stare-y, and they were all ogling my boobs or ass.”

  She smiled and raised an eyebrow.

  “Can’t blame them for that, honey. They’re only human . . . human males, that is. Hell, I stare at your awesome boobs and bootilicious ass, and I’m straight and female.”

  I giggled as the Mimosa warmed my stomach.

  “I know it’s not going to be easy. How can I deliver outstanding lessons when the Warden told me that two of my students have pending court cases and most of the others are nearing parole? They could disappear from class any day.” I frowned. “But he also told me that several of them have children, so they want to get their GED to be good role models for once.”

  Becky nodded. When we’d taught together in public school, we ran a program for parents to improve their literacy skills. That had gotten me interested in teaching adults in the first place.

  “There was this one guy though, Garrett,” I went on. “He looked dangerous. He kept shooting me these angry looks, like he hated every second of being in my classroom and wanted to be nowhere near me. He was kind of scary. Good-looking asshole, you know?”

  “Not really. Good-looking how?”

  “All intense dark eyes and messy blond hair. Oh, and a killer body. I don’t mean killer, like killer. Although . . . maybe. It’s possible . . .”

  “Oh my God!”

  “No, but seriously,” I rambled, “he was built. Really nice arms, and tall, really tall.”

  Becky gawped.

  “Are you seriously telling me that you’re crushing on a prisoner?”

  “Of course not! The opposite. I’m saying he was scary.”

  “So the scary prisoner is good-looking and built, and throwing you all these intense, dark stares?”

  “When you say it like that . . . but, no . . . he kind of gives me the creeps.”

  My brain was buzzing from the alcohol and lack of food. Had Garrett creeped me out? Maybe, a little. But he hadn’t said or done anything inappropriate; he hadn’t done anything at all. I felt faintly guilty, like I was doing him a disservice by bad-mouthing him to Becky.

  But then she ordered another round of Mimosas, and I forgot about Garrett.

  For a while.

  Garrett

  I SLEPT LIKE shit. For one thing, Hudson was having nightmares again. He had one most nights, although they’d gotten worse since he’d been told that he’d be up for parole soon.

  I asked him about that: he said outside had too much free space. I think he felt safer inside because of all the rules and restrictions. It reminded him of being in the Army, the only time that he’d been happy.

  Fuck knows why. I hated being told what to do every hour of every day: when to eat, when to sleep, when to shit. I couldn’t wait to get out.

  I casually suggested that he see the prison shrink, but he freaked out at that idea, and I had the black eye and bruised ribs to prove it.

  But it wasn’t just his yelling that kept me awake. I’d been thinking about that sweet and ripe little teacher, and how seeing her in that shitty classroom was like feeling the sun on my face after a long dark winter. But I also knew that she’d taken an instant dislike to me. And for once, I could honestly say that I hadn’t done anything. A woman usually waited until after I’d slept with her to hate me.

  Yeah, I knew it was possible to piss a woman off by just breathing too much air when they was mad at you, but she’d been angrier with me than the guys who mouthed off and disrespected her. I didn’t get it. And I hated feeling dumb.

  I thought again about her stupid, lame-ass assignment. I had two choices: write it, like she wanted—make up some bullshit about rainbows and unicorns—or I didn’t. But if I didn’t get a passing grade in her class, I’d be sent to work in the prison’s kitchens again dumping slop cans, or end up being dorm janitor for 40¢ an hour, which meant cleaning up the disgusting showers and the shitters after thirty guys had used them, sweeping up the cigarette butts and tobacco spit in the day room, and a hundred other crappy, stomach-churning chores for less money than just about any other job in prison.

  The Warden had made it clear to each of us on the GED program that a failing grade would mean being given the shittiest jobs and loss of privileges, like TV and showers. And we weren’t supposed to let the teacher know that either. So I guess she’d be allowed to think like she was all shiny and new with us, motivating our sorry asses, when the truth was something else. A big fat shitty something else.

  Right now I had to work thirty hours a week on the prison farm. It was okay. I got to be outside a lot, even though I froze my butt off in winter and cooked my ass in summer. And it was one of the most popular jobs because you could get extra food sometimes. I heard one of the guards say that the hard work was supposed to make us less aggressive. I wanted to tell him that letting us out of prison would make us less aggressive, but I kept my mouth shut.

  We grew fr
uit and vegetables that went to the prison kitchen, and had a large barn for chickens. I didn’t like cleaning out them chickens—the smell of ammonia made my eyes water and breath hack up in my chest.

  I’d rather have worked in the auto shop like I did in my last prison, but Nottoway didn’t have much of an auto program, so I probably wasn’t missing out.

  The Warden said he’d reduce my hours on the farm to twenty so I had time for school and homework, but it hadn’t happened yet. I didn’t mind, because fighting boredom was always one of the toughest things about life inside. That, and not letting yourself get too crazy.

  I was feeling kind of tired, and the thought of falling into my bunk and catching some ZZZs while Hudson was in the day room was tempting, but when I did close my eyes, I saw the teacher’s angry glare aimed at me. And even more frequently, I saw her soft, all-woman curves, and that had me hardening uncomfortably.

  All guys jerk off in prison. You have to. It releases some of the tension. Most of us do it at night with the relative privacy of darkness, even though you know there are thirty guys doing the same thing within a few yards of you, or if you have a cellmate, within a few feet.

  You do it quick and you do it quiet, but you can still hear other men slapping their skin. It freaked me out when I went inside the first time in juvie, but it’s one of those sick, twisted things that you get used to in prison. Like turning a blind eye if someone else is getting beat up, because you’re just glad it’s not you.

  Some guys did it out in the open if there weren’t any guards around. Mostly they were homos, but not all. Some got off on being seen. Everything is a public performance in a prison. There are no doors in the bathrooms, so if you’re on the john, everyone knows your shit stinks, same as theirs.

  It’s not like any prison movie you see in here—no one has your back unless you join a gang. And that has its own price. I always hung on my own. Most people will respect that after you show you’re not gonna take their shit—maybe take a beat down instead, if you have to. I hung with Hudson a little, him being my cellmate and all, but he was a crazy motherfucker and I didn’t want to get pulled into his brand of nuts.