Authors: Francine Pascal
Swat’s curses hurled at me in high, raw shrieks assault my back. She’s crying and screaming at the same time, and it’s all about me. I don’t know how this happened, but it’s terrifying.
Where is that damned matron!
I start to knock on the door, first with restraint and then building until I’m pounding and Leo’s pounding, but we can’t even hear our sounds over the cacophony of clashing metal crashing into its own echoes and strung across the top of everything a hideous wailing and howling.
I feel my back about to be pounced on and spin around quickly. She’s still locked behind the gates but now she’s climbed halfway up the wire mesh, clinging with fingers and toes sticking through, using her body weight to swing back and forth against the bars. Her crimson face is pressed hard against the metal, her flesh bubbling up through the crisscross pattern of the bars cutting across her mouth where, like a mad dog, saliva foams up at both ends.
The door behind Swat swings open, and two men and a woman rush in. Almost simultaneously, Nancy disappears out the door. Expertly, the two men hold Swat’s body firmly against the screen while the woman shoots a needle high up into the skinny bare thigh with a dartlike thrust. Deftly she squeezes the fluid into Swat, and within no more than five seconds the wailing sound winds down and the crazed body goes limp. The two men easily disentangle her, wrapping her arms in a straitjacket, and cart her off. Not one of them has said a word to her or to us.
Leo lets out a sigh of relief, runs his hand through his thin gray hair and, smoothing it down, slides his straw hat low on his forehead.
“Woo wee,” he shakes his head. “You just better pray she doesn’t ever get out.”
A shudder passes through my body at the thought just as something knocks my shoulder, making me jump back and let out a yelp. It’s only the door behind me being opened by the matron, who, as if nothing has happened, comes in smiling, and all my terror turns to outrage.
“Where were you! We’ve been pounding on this goddamn door and pushing the buzzers and everything. That woman went mad. Didn’t you hear!”
“Sorry, honey,” she says, not at all sorry, “but you’re not the only ones in this place, you know.”
“Incredible!” I say to Leo, who shrugs his shoulders in resignation. One look at the matron’s stony I-dare-you face, and I know she’s aching to take me on. I can see there’s nothing I can do about this; besides, the only thing I’d really like to do is whack the bitch over the head with my pocketbook, which of course I can’t do, mainly because she’d probably snap me in half. I feel as powerless as one of her prisoners. All I can think of now is getting out of here.
The idea that I have to come back to this place tomorrow to interview Imogene turns my stomach.
My body feels as if it’s taken a hard blow, and the sharp sense of danger I felt is still with me. I can’t get away fast enough. I practically race from one identification point to the next, hurriedly emptying out my pocketbook at each one, fumbling for the passes, for the ID cards, letters, whatever. Twice the guards ask me if there’s anything wrong, and all I can do is shake my head, no. The only thing on my mind is how long Swat is going to be in prison. Not for a minute do I think she can escape, Avrum or no Avrum. But just the thought of her being paroled, even ten years from now, unnerves me.
I hadn’t noticed that Leo is still with me. He doesn’t look so good either.
“God,” I say, “that was an awful experience.”
“That’s one of them Maheely girls, ain’t it?”
“Right. And she’s going to be in there for a long, long time.”
“A real loony. How long is she in for?”
“Life. She’ll probably come up for parole in about ten years, but that’s academic because nobody’s going to parole any of that group, not until they’re eighty, at least.”
“You’re right. Only way that one’s getting out is over the wall.”
“And that’s impossible in this place, isn’t it?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “It happens.”
There’s an unpleasant thump at the bottom of my stomach. “I can’t believe it. This place is like a fortress.”
“Still, it happens.”
I take a good hard look at Leo to make sure he’s not doing this to tease me, but he’s serious. “When was the last time anybody broke out of here?”
“I don’t know. Not lately, anyhow.”
“See.”
“Not for four, five years. Not since Nancy.”
“Nancy!” I say it so loud two guards snap around. Dull, gray, unmotivated, unimaginative, soft, dumb Nancy! Oh God, how hard can it be? I’ll never be able to sleep again.
“Yep, she sure did. She and Whistle Kramer, you know that girl what went along with that Utah Sniper?”
“I remember. What happened?”
“Nothing much. They both got caught inside a week. But they did it.”
“How?”
“They was both working in food deliveries, and just like in the movies one day they get this chance to hide out in some big, empty rice barrels. So they did, and next thing they know they’re fifteen miles away in a big warehouse, and then all they did was wait till it was dark and quiet, and then real carefully they just walked out.”
“Jesus.”
“And that wasn’t even really planned, but Nancy’s pretty smart when she’s gotta be.”
He waits for me to ask more questions, but I don’t because I can’t bear to hear any more about how easy it is to walk out of this maximum-security prison. Or how smart Nancy is when I saw for myself that she can’t have half the brains of Swat. Another thing I certainly don’t want ever to know is what that sweet little gray-haired lady did to end up in this place. I’d like to think it was aggravated shoplifting but more likely it was aggravated infanticide, and when I look at Leo, to whom I was about to offer a lift back to San Francisco, I decide he probably helped.
“So long, Leo. Nice to meet you.” And I speed to my rented Kia, jump in and lock the doors. All the way back I try to control the horror-movie scenes that keep flashing in my mind of Swat trying to tear her way out of that cage to get to me. Finally, the only thing that calms me at all is the thought that realistically the odds against her escaping and coming after me are infinitely greater than the simple possibility that some freeway fool is going to slam into the rear of this crappy car and explode it if I let my mind keep wandering like this.
I treat myself to a delicious dinner at a restaurant right in the hotel, where I polish off nearly a whole bottle of Bordeaux, all by myself. By ten-thirty I’m in bed with the door locked and chained, windows checked, and all the lights on.
David calls. It’s so good to hear his soothing, solid, strong, loving voice, but unfortunately I can’t afford the luxury of his sympathy and comfort because I know it’s definitely the wrong story to tell him.
“How did it go?” he wants to know.
“Good.” I hate to lie to him. “She certainly wasn’t friendly, but I got what I wanted. Tomorrow I see Imogene. I ought to be finished by noon and then right to the airport. I’ll probably make the two-oh-five that gets in at ten something your time.”
“I’ll pick you up.”
Normally I’d say don’t bother and mean it, but this time I can’t see him fast enough. “Great. Thanks, love.”
“I didn’t expect to catch you in so early. I thought you’d probably be having dinner with Sephra.”
“Oh . . .” And I spin out yet another lie I hate myself for. “They’re away.”
“What a shame. That’s too bad.” Immediately he’s accepting, believing, doubling my guilt and discomfort. He goes on (much too long, it seems to me) about how disappointed Sephra’s going to be when she finds out I was here. It’s all so suffocating that I can’t wait to get off the phone. I’m embarrassed by my own tacky behavior and by David’s gullibility.
“David, darling, I’m just trying to write up today’s notes, and I’m exhausted.”
“Oh, sure . . . right. Don’t let me hold you up.”
Now I’ve compounded it by insulting him. There’s a second of silence until I come rushing in with an armload of loving affection. “Oh, David, I miss you so much. Damn it, it’s so hard to be away from you for even a day. I wish you were here lying next to me, close—touching.”
“I miss you too, Jo.” He means it, but it’s guarded.
The one thing I’m not lying about he doubts. There must be an aura of falseness about me, and he’s picking it up.
We talk more, and I begin to relax and he responds, and it’s a warm and soothing love we give to each other and it’s true, and by the time we disconnect, the glow is almost as comforting as if we’d been making love.
I don’t want to lie to David ever—anymore. But I’m in a trap and I can’t get out until I finish this project. Or drop it.
This time I’m alone in the visitors’ room and apprehensive. The thought of another debacle like yesterday’s keeps me on edge. I’m prepared at all costs to keep my personal feelings safely out of the interview; still, I’m very nervous.
The matron from yesterday pops her head in for a second, sneers in amusement, and leaves. Annoyed, I look around to see what has bestirred her obviously gothic sense of humor. I see quickly that it is I. In my anxiety I’ve moved my chair so far away from my prospective interviewee that I’m almost in the middle of the room. I correct to a position nearer the screen, but not too near. Of course, I’m jumpy. That woman yesterday was homicidal, a psychopath. And this one is a murderess too. Damn it! Who needs this? David was right. If I hadn’t signed the contracts and taken the money I think I might back out.
As soon as the beautiful red-haired young woman comes through the door I know I don’t have to worry about this one. She’s about as scary as Marilyn Monroe. In fact, her combination of sexiness and vulnerability reminds me of the dead actress instantly. Any actress. Only an Edith Head could make that same ugly, stiff prison uniform Swat was wearing yesterday cling almost silkily across Imogene’s hips, nip in tight to catch the tiny waist, and then lie open so casually, so offhandedly soft across the beginning swell of her breasts. Her smile is ingenuously sweet and manages somehow to palliate what otherwise might have been a tawdriness in the sexy, low-lidded, long-slitted eyes.
“Miss Morgan? Hi,” she says cheerily. She looks genuinely happy to see me. “Gee, you’re pretty.”
“Thank you. And thanks for giving me this interview.”
“I used to have a blouse something like that. Avrum bought it for me. It was a real surprise.” She enjoys the memory for an instant and then adds wistfully, “I don’t know what happened to it since I came here.”
“I’m sure all your things have been put away carefully so that . . .” I see her hanging on my words. So that what? She can have them when she’s eighty? “So that they’ll be safe.”
“You think so?”
“Yes, definitely.” I find myself talking to this twenty-four-year-old woman as simply and patiently as I would to a child of ten. It is possible that that’s the mentality that I’m dealing with, but I want to be very careful because, as slow as she might seem, she is not a child.
“Have you heard from Avrum?” I ask her.
“Oh, yes. All the time.”
“That’s nice. Do you save his letters?”
“Of course I do.”
“I’d love to see one.”
“OK.”
“Or as many as you want to show me. How many do you have?”
“Two. Do you want them now?”
“That would be great, Imogene, I’d really appreciate that. Where are they? In your room?”
“Oh, no, I always carry them right here with me.” She carefully takes the two letters from her pocket, and, gently pressing out the worn and softened pages, she puts them on the shelf in front of her. I almost hate to take them but I can hardly wait to get my hands on them, and when she offers to give them to the matron right now I agree instantly.
She buzzes for the matron and hands these very precious possessions over to give to me, a total stranger. I’m touched by her trust and innocence.
“I promise to mail them back the minute I’m finished with them,” I tell her, and she smiles and says she knows I will. I go back to my notes. “You said that you heard from Avrum often; do they let him phone you?”
“He doesn’t call me, not so far, anyway. Mostly, it’s inside talk.” And she puts her hand on her heart and then to her head. “That’s where we always talked best.”
“What does he say to you?”
“He says he’s going to come get me. He promised.”
The words sweep me back to yesterday and Swat’s threats, and for the moment I’m unnerved.
When I pull myself together, I ask what else Avrum tells her, and she gives me the party line. I don’t know how much any of it means to her, but she’s memorized it all: he’s going to save America, maybe the world, he’s our salvation, the new spirit and so forth, everything short of the word God, but it’s obvious that’s who he really is. I’m fascinated to see how completely Imogene belongs to him. Fascinated and horrified. He hasn’t seen her in more than eleven months, yet, in absentia, his power remains wholly intact. I know it’s not fair to judge his impact by his influence over this woman who is obviously very nearly a borderline defective; nevertheless, her worship of him isn’t that much different from Swat’s.
I’ve gotten a good deal of background on Imogene from the trial, and I’ve used a close approximation of it in my novel, so most of my questions focus on her life with Avrum. Yet here the information is surprisingly scant. She’s better at feeding me back rote responses than original thoughts, and all I get from her is minimum information until she starts telling me about her sex life with Avrum, terribly intimate descriptions all couched in the kind of vivid obscenities rarely heard beyond the Chicago docksides and yet somehow inoffensive from the mouth of someone who has, really, no notion of verbal niceties and means simply to be as honest as she can. Even so, despite the crudity of her sexual expressions, she conveys the intensity of her sensuality; the hunger of her passion and her love makes itself felt to me and manages in some way to be almost erotic. I’ve never experienced such a totally sexual being before. With complete openness and an absolute purity she reveals a highly developed state of sexuality far beyond my own, and I find myself momentarily mesmerized by what has now become some sort of paean to sex. I stare at this creature and wonder if there could be such a thing as an idiot savant with a genius in sexuality.
A picture is beginning to emerge of the kind of interaction that exists between Maheely and his followers. The one strain that is constant in all these relationships is a powerful sexual bonding. Sex is the weapon of command, and Maheely uses it with both the men and the women.
I ask Imogene if Avrum was very close to Swat, and her silky eyes take on the look of a frightened deer. “Swat gets very mad if anybody talks about her. She told me that I’d better not say anything to you about her and Avrum, so I can’t.”
“That’s OK, Imogene, I don’t want you to get into any trouble.”
“Besides, Avrum hardly ever fucked her. Especially not after Pinky came around.”
“Who’s Pinky?”
“Some girl.”
“A friend of Avrum’s?”
“Avrum really liked her a whole lot. He did almost everything all by himself when her baby got born. I wiped her forehead and all over her face with a wet rag all the time. Swat vomited, so he told her to get out.”
“I don’t remember anyone named Pinky. What was her real name?”
“I don’t know. Maybe in the beginning she had another name, but Avrum always called her Pinky, so everyone else did too.”
“What was she like?”
“She had blond hair, the yellow kind, and very long. And not messy curly like mine.” She impatiently flips back a handful of her shimmering, golden-orange ringlets. “I wish I had straight hair like Pinky.”
“You have beautiful hair.”
“Sometimes Pinky used to let me brush her hair, and it was so smooth. No matter what, it never had any knots, even after it was first washed. Avrum liked her hair too.”
“Was she part of the family?”
“Sure.”
“Where did she come from?”
“I don’t know. One day, except it was really night, she just came to the door. This other guy Ross said she was a runaway, and he didn’t want her to stay because he said maybe the police might start nosing around, but Avrum said she could, and after that nobody said anything about her going away anymore. Swat would have liked it if she died, she hated her so much. I don’t know why because Pinky was really nice to everyone all the time. Even to Swat, and Swat was never nice to her.”
“You said something about a baby. Was it Avrum’s child?”
“Yeah.”
“Where are they now, Pinky and the baby?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is she in prison?”
“No. She’s a Moony or something like that.”
“In San Francisco?”
“She said she was going to write letters to me, but she didn’t.”
“Maybe she will.”
“You think so?”
“She sounds very nice. I’m sure she will. If you could remember anything else about where she’s living now, maybe I could get in touch with her and ask her to write to you.”
“Swat said not to.”
“Maybe Pinky doesn’t have your address. I could give it to her.”
I feel a little slimy, tricking her like this, but Pinky could be an important contact for me.
“Promise?”
“Absolutely.”
“OK. She lives in Sausalito someplace. I don’t know, but it was next door to a Guru restaurant.”
“Do you remember the street or anything else?”
“Uh uh, but Avrum once took me there way before Pinky came, and there were a whole lot of people, and they were all wearing these long white dresses, even the men. We were on the front porch of the restaurant, and you could see them all from there.”
Then before I can stop her she goes into a long description of what she ate, right down to the last bean. It’s not exactly like listening to dinner at Lutece, but I’m amazed at how keen her memory is. She’s certainly slow-witted, possibly because of some brain damage, but apparently not affected in the memory area. And, from her sexual awareness, not in the sensation part either.
She talks a bit more about Pinky and then about her new friend in prison. Imogene seems to have a highly developed animal survival instinct. Instinctively she feels the currents and moves along with them, which is probably the best way to survive in a place like this. She’s become the private pet of one of the most powerful inmates, an older woman serving a life sentence for murdering her husband. In return for the liaison, she gives Imogene the protection she doesn’t know she needs.
I ask her more about her relationship with Avrum, but that concept seems too difficult for her to handle. She relates some little stories that in themselves seem pointless, but I do manage to pick up what could be an important insight. Avrum’s treatment of Imogene is different from his approach to the others. He has never once directed his explosive temper at her, nor has he ever touched her in anger. That’s unusual because, except for Imogene, he always used the fear of physical violence as an important control. He was strong and would spring unexpectedly with great force. They all feared him. He appeared to have an instinct that would immediately home in on a person’s greatest weakness or most desperate need. With Imogene, the weapons were love and patience, and Maheely, the merciless killer, seemed to have an abundance, when needed, of those gentle qualities.
As the interview ends Imogene makes me promise to write to her, and I say I will.
Then, just as I’m getting up to leave, she says, “Please don’t go yet.”
“I have to. My time is up.”
“Please. I don’t want to stay here anymore.”
“Imogene, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”
Like a child whose mother is leaving her in a strange place she pleads with me, “I want to go home. I promise I won’t be bad anymore. I swear I won’t.”
I tell her I can’t do anything for her and get up to ring for the matron. Now Imogene is crying, and I feel sick.
I try to cheer her up. “I really will write to you. I promise.”
But she’s beyond consolation. Through tiny, timid sobs she begs me to tell Avrum to come get her. If only she could come home with me she would do anything for me. Pathetically she tells me how she would help me around the house. Somehow she thinks I can get her out.
The matron, a different woman from yesterday’s bitch, opens the door. I go over to Imogene and whisper good-bye. She looks up at me, her beautiful eyes swimming in tears, her nose reddened and wet from the flood of tears that has dampened stray pieces of front hair, making them stick to her cheeks in little circles. Heartbreak is on her face, and if I could I would take her in my arms and comfort her. I know the terrible things she’s done, but she doesn’t belong here. She’s not responsible for her actions.
“I’ll write to you, and I’ll see that Pinky does too,” I promise.
But she’s not listening to me. The matron opens the door behind her and in a rough, uncaring way grabs her by the arm and pulls her toward the door. She moves along like a rag doll, sniffling through little whines, “Please help me. . . .”
And I stand on the other side of the screen, apologizing.
At the door, Imogene stops and, wrapping her free hand around the side molding, holds herself still against the matron’s pull. She looks directly at me and, screwing up her face tight until it’s squeezed into an almost unrecognizable wrinkled fist of ugly meanness, suddenly spits out at me, “I hate you!” And then, yanked by the matron, disappears through the doorway.
“Don’t pay any attention to her.” The matron’s voice from behind startles me. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying half the time.”
I smile at her and say I know. All I want to do is get out of this place. Fast and for good. I thank the matron and whisk past her down the hallway toward the front desk.
“Your letters,” she calls to me, and when I turn she’s waving Imogene’s two letters.
I take them with a quick thank you, shove them into my attaché case, and I’m out the door. Free.
Incredible. I’m batting a thousand. Obviously, I’m America’s most unpopular prison visitor. Relief starts to wash over me as I get into the car, and, pulling out of the parking lot, I begin to calm down. At least it’s over and I have the letters which, I noticed when I put them away, are nice and thick, and, best of all, I have a very important new lead—Pinky.