Eileen (12 page)

Just then, like birdsong at midnight, a magic, melodic voice rang out from down the dim hallway. It was Rebecca saying good night to James. I tried to collect myself, listening as the ticktock of her heels got louder. After a moment, she stood before me in a long black coat, briefcase in hand. Hours had now passed since the ridiculous Christmas pageant. I tried to smile, fumbling to put Leonard Polk's file back in order, but I lost my grasp on the folder and its contents spilled out, pages flapping onto the dirty linoleum.

“Uh-oh,” I said like a fool. Rebecca came behind the office counter to help me pick up the papers. I watched her from behind as she squatted down to reach under Mrs. Stephens's desk. She gathered the fabric of her skirt up so that it wouldn't drag on the floor, revealing her calves—refined, gentle curves, nothing like mine, which were spindly and childish. “My goodness,” she said, reading the document in her hands. “Can you imagine killing your own father?” She handed the paper back to me, eying me knowingly, I thought.

“Thank you,” I said, blushing.

“It's a story for the ages, of course. Kill your father, sleep with your mother,” Rebecca went on. “The male instinct can be terribly predictable.” She leaned over my shoulder, squinting at the photograph of the boy. Her hair fell like a curtain between us. She swept it back and strands fluttered against my cheek like feathers. She bit her lip. “Leonard Polk,” she read aloud. I could smell cigarettes on her breath, and violet candies.

“He's been in solitary,” I told her. “I've never seen him out here at all. No visitors.”

“Now that's a shame,” said Rebecca. “May I?” She spread her palms open before me. I handed her the folder.

“I was just doing some filing,” I told her stupidly, hoping she wouldn't suspect me of snooping.

Rebecca flipped through the papers in the folder. I pretended to look busy, rearranging things on my desk, scanning an old questionnaire. “Name your favorite celebrity. What time do you go to bed at night?”

“I'll just borrow this,” Rebecca said, slipping the Polk file
into her briefcase. “Fun bedtime reading,” she quipped. I sat back down at my desk, anxious and awkward, while she buttoned her coat. “Some show today.”

“They do it every year.”

“I'd call that cruel and unusual punishment,” she replied. She flung a fuzzy mohair shawl over her shoulders, untucked her hair. I felt I had utterly failed to impress her. I resolved to say more, be cooler, more charming, smarter, funnier, more alive the next time we talked. “Well, see you in the morning,” she said, and ticktocked down the hall to the blustery evening outside.

On the way home that night, I stocked up on alcohol for my father at Lardner's, then stopped in a drugstore for violet mints and a pack of cigarettes for myself. I rarely smoked, but when something had me riled up I did enjoy a cigarette or two. I tried to put Leonard Polk out of my mind, though the image of him touching himself in the cave had excited me. It was what I'd always hoped to see in all my spying on Randy, just a little glimpse of him being obscene. I shook my head gruffly, as though the image of the boy would get dislodged from my brain, scuttle out my ears, and leave me alone. I wasn't a pedophile—a word I remembered from Latin class years earlier. Browsing the cosmetics aisle, I found a new shade of lipstick—a glossy, blood red: Passionate Lover. I slipped it into my pocket. The sleeves of my coat—it had been my mother's—were long and wide at the cuffs, so I could easily lift almost anything. I've been good at stealing all my life. I still pinch things from the grocery store from time to time—dental floss, a
head of garlic, a pack of gum. I don't see the great harm in it. I figure I've given away or lost enough over my lifetime to even out my debts.

That night I did pay for, along with a humiliating package of sanitary napkins, a small compact of pressed powder, the lightest shade they had: Snow Queen. A fashion magazine on the rack at the checkout counter caught my eye, too. The cover showed a bony, melancholy woman pouting in a gray fur hat, looking upward as though at some disapproving statesman. “Isn't it romantic . . .” it said on the cover. The fur, I thought, looked like a house cat. I plunked down the money. The salesgirl handled my package of sanitary napkins as though they were already soiled, pushing it with her fingertips into the paper bag she propped open, cavelike on the counter. She slipped the magazine into its own flat paper bag, which I liked. Back inside the Dodge, I arranged all the brown paper packages on the passenger seat. The bottles of booze, the napkins, the magazine. I took the lipstick from my pocket and applied it liberally over my mouth, blind. When I got home my father said, “Whose rosy ass have you been kissing?” Then he plucked the bottles from under my arm. “Not your color,” he sneered, padding back to the kitchen. Like Leonard Polk, I didn't say a word.

A
grown woman is like a coyote—she can get by on very little. Men are more like house cats. Leave them alone for too long and they'll die of sadness. Over the years I've grown to love men for this weakness. I've tried to respect them as people, full of feelings, fluctuating and beautiful from day to day. I have listened, soothed, wiped the tears away. But as a young woman in X-ville, I had no idea that other people—men or women—felt things as deeply as I did. I had no compassion for anyone unless his suffering allowed me to indulge in my own. My development was very stunted in this regard. Did I know that the boys at Moorehead—like prisoners around the world, so it seems—might be being pressured by guards to fight one another for sport at night, that they were made to defecate in their pillowcases, routinely forced to strip by the corrections officers who spat on them, beat them up, tied them down, humiliated and abused them? Rumors surfaced, but their implications didn't register. I barely even noticed that the boys were
handcuffed by the guards when they were escorted to and from the visitation room. Why should my heart ache for anyone but myself? If anyone was trapped and suffering and abused, it was me. I was the only one whose pain was real. Mine.

Had that Tuesday at work been a typical Tuesday, I would have spent it idle at my desk, watching the clock, sketching out my escape from X-ville for the hundredth time. If I left the Dodge at a filling station in Rutland—at a gas pump even—and just walked away, my head covered with a scarf, and simply boarded the next train to New York from Rutland station without anyone noticing me, people in X-ville might suspect I'd been kidnapped by some modern-day highwayman, expect to find me headless somewhere across the country, dumped by the side of the road or in some gruesome cheap motel scene. “Poor Eileen,” my dad would sniffle. I imagined. I dreamed. But that Tuesday I wasn't thinking of any of those things. Instead, I thought of Rebecca, whose arrival at Moorehead seemed like a sweet promise from God that my situation could improve. I was no longer alone. Finally, here was a friend I could admire and open up to, who could understand me, my plight, and help me rise above it. She was my ticket to a new life. And she was so clever and beautiful, I thought, the embodiment of all my fantasies for myself. I knew I couldn't be her, but I could be with her, and that was enough to thrill me. When she arrived that Tuesday, bustling in from the frigid morning snowdrifts, she whirled off her coat as though in slow motion—this is how I remember it—and shook it like a bullfighter as she strode up
the corridor toward me, hair rippling behind her, eyes like daggers shooting down straight through my heart to my guts. She was pure magic. Her coat was a crimson wool swing coat with a gray fur collar. It was the same kind of fur I'd seen on the magazine cover. I stood up nervously when she got closer, expectantly, as though I were her assistant, her secretary, her maidservant. She nodded politely to the old ladies in the office and caught my eye on her way back to the locker room, which is where I followed her.

I had dressed for the occasion. From my mother's wardrobe I'd composed an ensemble I thought made me look more cosmopolitan—navy blue, of course. I even wore an old fake pearl necklace. I'd brushed my hair and applied my lipstick more carefully that morning, dabbing at the edges of my mouth with the pressed powder so it stayed in place. I remember this because, as I've said, I was obsessed with my looks. Ironically, despite my preoccupation, my appearance on most days was slovenly, offensive even. “Disgraceful,” said my father. I thought, though, that I looked much better that morning. “Fancy” was probably the word I would have used. In any case, I followed the sound of Rebecca's delicate heels ticktocking across the linoleum floor, and in the locker room she turned to me, saying, “Can you help me open my locker again? I can't seem to do it.” She held up her long hands and twiddled her fingers in her skin-tight dove-gray leather gloves. “All thumbs,” she said. This helplessness was some kind of flirtation, I think, a manipulation of roles to keep me at her service, though I couldn't have
understood that at the time. I was perfectly pleased to spin the dial with finesse, blushing as though my talent for opening a locker was a sign of great virtue.

“But how do you know my combination?” she asked.

The locker opened with a sharp clank. I stepped back with pride.

“All the combinations are the same,” I told her. “But don't tell the old ladies. They'd all have strokes.”

“You're funny,” said Rebecca, wrinkling her nose. She carried her briefcase and a small leather purse from which she transferred her cigarettes into the pocket of her sweater. Her sweater looked so soft—it must have been angora, cashmere—it seemed to float around her like cotton candy. That day, just the second time I'd seen her, she wore all different shades of purple—lavender, violet, mauve. If she'd been any other woman, I would have discounted her as a hussy since her dress was so formfitting, so elegant, completely inappropriate for work in a prison. This wasn't some romantic evening, after all. But Rebecca was no hussy. She was divine. I gazed at the elegant bend in her arm as she hung her coat up in her locker.

“I know it's wrong to wear fur,” she said, seeing me stare. “But I can't help myself. Chinchilla.” She petted the collar of her coat inside the locker as though it were a cat.

“No, no,” I said. “I was just admiring your cigarette case.”

“Oh, thanks,” she said. “It was a gift. See, it has my initials.” She pulled it out from her pocket and showed me. It was a striated silver cigarette case, the size of a pack of cards. I wanted to ask, “A gift from whom?” but held my tongue. She opened it and
offered me a cigarette. They were Pall Malls, thick and filterless and the harshest cigarettes I've ever smoked. I was on them for several years later in life, always rather moved by the unexpected beauty of the motto written across their logo—a shield between two lions—
Per aspera ad astra
. Through the thorns to the stars. That described my plight to a tee, I thought back then, though of course it didn't. Rebecca lit my cigarette with a flourish of the wrist. That thrilled me. When she lit her own, she tilted her head like a thoughtful bird, sucking in her cheeks just slightly. I remember all this with precise acuity. I was infatuated with her, clearly. And I felt in a way that just by knowing her, I was graduating out of my misery. I was making some progress.

“I don't usually smoke,” I said, choking a bit, though I had a pack of Salems in my purse.

“Nasty habit,” Rebecca said, “but that's why I like it. Not very becoming of a lady, though. It turns your teeth yellow. See?” And she leaned in toward me, a finger hooked on her bottom lip, stretching her gums apart to show me the inside of her mouth. “See the discoloration? That's coffee and cigarettes. And red wine.” But her teeth were perfect—small, and white as paper. Her gums were pink and glossy, and the skin on her face was miraculously smooth, like a baby's, flawless and radiant and light. You see women like this from time to time—beautiful as children, unscathed, wide-eyed. Her cheeks were full but firm, buoyant. Her lips were pale pink and bow-shaped, but chapped. By that slight imperfection I felt subtly disappointed, and yet redeemed.

“I don't drink coffee,” I said, “so I guess I should have perfect
teeth. But they're all rotted due to my propensity for sweets.” This word,
propensity,
was not in my day-to-day vocabulary back then, and it was awkward to say it, and I worried Rebecca would see through my attempt to sound smart and laugh at me. But what she said next made my heart nearly burst in ecstasy.

“Well, I wouldn't think to look at you!” She smiled wide, putting her hands on her hips. “You're positively tiny! I admire that so much, how petite you are.” That was heaven. And then she went on. “I'm thin, too, of course, but tall and thin. Being tall has its advantages, but most men are just too short for me. Have you noticed, or am I imagining, men these days are getting shorter and shorter?” I nodded, rolling my eyes in solidarity although I couldn't possibly answer her question. She put her purse in the locker and shut it. “They're like little boys. Hard to find a real man, or at least a man that looks like one. To tell you the truth,” she began—I held my breath—“I've forgotten my locker combination. But I won't trouble you again. You have better things to do, I'm sure. I have it written down in my desk. Now to find my way back to that office they gave me yesterday. I won't ask for help with that either. I should be able to follow my nose. The smell of ancient leather.” She paused. “There's that old couch in Bradley's office next door to mine, you know, the fainting couch. How Freudian,” she said, widening her eyes sarcastically. “How outdated, I mean.”

“Bradley?” I'd forgotten Dr. Frye's replacement, Dr. Bradley Morris, with the bald head. Was he scrawny? Was he a real man by Rebecca's standards? I had no idea. Was she involved with him somehow?

“The new headshrinker,” said Rebecca. “To tell you the truth”—there was that phrase again—“I don't think his head's been shrunk down quite enough, if you know what I mean.” It took me a moment to compute. Was this a comment on his proportions? I was like a pubescent boy, fumbling for words. Seeing my blank look, Rebecca said, almost apologetically, “Big headed, I mean. But I'm kidding. He seems like a perfectly nice person.”

I cursed myself for being so slow, so dense. I wanted to explain that I was intelligent, well-read, that I'd been to college, that I knew who Freud was, that I didn't belong in that prison, that I was exceptional, I was cool, but it seemed petty to defend myself.

“I've never been inside that office,” I said instead. “Dr. Frye always kept it locked, and only the boys ever went in there.” I didn't have a quick wit like she did. I was graceless, pedestrian and dull. Apart from my size, I couldn't impress Rebecca at all. I should have asked her about herself, her plans at Moorehead, how she got interested in prison work, what her goals were, her dreams and ambitions, but my mind didn't work that way back then. I had no manners. I didn't know how to make friends.

“Come visit any time,” she said, nevertheless. “Unless, of course, the door is closed. Which means I'm with one of the boys.”

“Thank you,” I said. I meant to sound professional. “I'll stop in next time I'm passing by.”

“Eileen,” she said, pointing her finger at my gut. “Right?”

I blushed deeply, and nodded.

“Call me Rebecca,” she said, winking, and ticktocked away.

I could have swooned with embarrassment and exhilaration. She'd remembered my name. That meant a great deal to me. I'd forgotten all about Leonard Polk's file. Earlier that morning I'd hoped Rebecca would give it back in case Mrs. Stephens found it missing and questioned me about it. But what did I care now? I had a real friend—someone who knew me, wanted my company, someone I felt connected to. I would replay that conversation with Rebecca, and every other one I had with her, again and again for years afterward as I came to terms with what would happen in the days ahead. At that moment, I felt happy. Meeting Rebecca was like learning to dance, discovering jazz. It was like falling in love for the first time. I had always been waiting for my future to erupt around me in an avalanche of glory, and now I felt it was really happening. Rebecca was all it took.
Per aspera ad astra
.

I had to set aside my reflections on the brief exchange with Rebecca that morning since it was a day for visitors and I had to work. There was already a gaggle of tearful mothers and small children sitting impatiently on the chairs in the waiting room by the time I got back to my desk. I remember one of the mothers had come to see her twelve-year-old son who had burned down the family house. He was a short, full-cheeked, brown-haired boy with duck feet and the beginnings of a mustache on his upper lip. I paid close attention to those strange hairs growing there. His reminded me of my own upper lip. I used to pluck those hairs routinely with tweezers. All the time I wasted plucking my face at the bathroom mirror, I could have written a book.
I could have learned to speak French. My eyebrows were always thin and weak, so I never had to pluck them. I've heard having weak brows is a sign of indecisiveness. I prefer to think it is the mark of an open heart, an appreciation of possibility. In that fashion magazine with the cat-fur hat, I'd read how some women draw their eyebrows with a pencil to be thick and dark. Ridiculous, I'd thought. Standing outside the visitation room, I tapped the bony points of my hips with the butt of my fist, a habit which assured me, somehow, of my superiority, my great strength.

When the little arsonist was seated across from his mother at the table, he did what all the younger boys did. They crossed their arms and faced the wall, steeled themselves, pouty and squinty, unreachably cool. But once they took one look at their mothers' pained faces, they burst into tears. The arsonist burst into tears. His mother pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and handed it across the table. Randy bolted into the room, holding one firm open palm in front of the boy, blocking the mother's extended hand with the other. “Sorry,” he said, monotonously. “That's not allowed.”

“You can hug him when you leave,” I chimed in, “but you can't give him anything. It's for security, to keep the children safe.” I had some practiced speech like that.

Of course, the rule wasn't there to protect children from handkerchiefs. I knew what I'd said just wasn't true. But I was young enough, and had been enslaved enough by my public school education and my father and his Catholicism, and was frightened enough of being punished or questioned or singled out, that I obeyed every rule there was at Moorehead. I followed
every procedure. I clocked in and out every day on time. I was a shoplifter, a pervert, you might say, and a liar, of course, but nobody knew that. I would enforce the rules all the more, for didn't that prove that I lived by a high moral code? That I was good? That I couldn't possibly want to hike up my skirt and move my runny bowels all over the linoleum floor? I understood perfectly that the rule that prohibited parents from giving gifts to their children was to keep the boys in a state of desperation. The warden proselytized at every possible occasion. His logic was quite sound, I believed. Only a desperate soul would feel remorse for his sins, and if the remorse was deep enough, the boy would surrender and hence he'd be pliable, finally willing to be transformed, so the warden said. The last people on Earth I'd put in charge of transforming anyone were that warden and Dr. Frye, or Dr. Morris—though I never knew him—or, sorry to say, Rebecca. She may have been the worst of all. But I speak with hindsight. At first, yes, Rebecca was a dream to me, she was magic, she was powerful and everything I wanted to be. So no handkerchiefs. No toys, no comics or magazines or books. Let the children cry. No one was offering me any tenderness, after all. Why should any of those boys have any more or better than I had? I lowered my gaze down to Randy's crotch as he walked back out of the visitation room. He just sucked his teeth and sighed.