Blowing in the Wind

            by Rose Fadim-Johnston

 

“-The golden rollin’ hills of California-” Kate Wolf was musing from the tape deck. I stared out at the hills in question. They rushed by in a sparkly blur; grasses, nettles and grains, all dead, all gleaming gold from beyond the highway.

My mother began to sing along, perfect with the key and melody, but a step behind in her words, giving the tune a sharp echo.

Our long VW camper van swept up through the hillsides. My mother would occasionally laugh. She would begin to tell a story, which was playing itself out in her mind, starting from the middle of her mental sentence. A story about my ‘aunt’, or her own childhood, a story I had undoubtedly heard many times, and tuned out. I let my mind concentrate on the rise and fall of the telephone poles beside the road.  But then she would cut herself off mid-sentence, and pick up on the heels of another line of the song, just a word or two behind.

As the hills leveled themselves out I could sense her excitement rising. Houses rose from the dead grass, forming an army base.  We drove towards its center. towards the prison.

“…green eyes that don’ miss a thing-”

We slowed over a speed bump that jostled the unlocked wheelchair in the back.

“-hold me like the sun going down-”

She sped up again, past the neat two story houses of generals and their families, with slides and bicycles in the front and volleyball nets on the side.

“-hold me like a fire in the night-”

She slowed again over the next bump, and rolled down into the parking lot, taking the spot closest to the path so we could get the wheelchair lift down.

“-without a sound-”

“All right Boo.” She calls, “out, out, out!”

I worked the buttons on the lift lowering her chair to the ground.  A squirrel passed by, jumping between bits of straggled shade and dry heat.

“Come on, bunny! I’ll race you!”

I glanced at my mother, grinned, and darted for the bungalow and barbed wire. She let out a whoop and pushes off, just a breath behind me. I made it to the bungalow first, touching the brown metal handle, pulling the glass door open for her.

The air-conditioned lobby inside slaps me to attention. The air is sharp, a bubble separate from the dusty soft shade where the squirrels bounced. Here were forms and metal detectors and keys. Here were people in uniforms we were supposed to impress.

I passed the metal detector test, and spelled my name right the first time on every paper. I was quiet. I didn’t once accidentally mark “yes” on the part that said I was in possession of drugs. And I sat. And my mother paced. Or, at least, paced to the point that swerving back and forth in a wheelchair can be considered pacing.

The clerk at the desk looked up at us and called out, “Faudeem.”  She gestured to the front of the room. My mother takes my hand, “Hon, come on.”

Here it came, success, entrance, the key to opening those iron gates, the access to visitation though the mile high barbed wire. Here it came, descending in the hand of a rather disgruntled clerk, striking down first upon my mother, and then down upon me. A stamp.

A smudged stamp. A formless blob of ink on my inner right wrist. We were done. We were in. We were buzzed through door number one and beeped through door number two. Then out into the outside air. This time we were on the other side of the fence.

A woman wearing a uniform composed of beige and starch walked us along the shade less path. Her clothing seemed to ignore the fact that it was supposed to move when she moved. It followed her body reluctantly, almost snapping at the creases.

Directly ahead were two compounds, and between them, a path. Women passing between buildings stopped there briefly, sharply silhouetted as they peered across to us. Wondering if we were someone they know, and we wondered the same.

But the path turned right then, and identities remained anonymous. A new brown metal building appeared across our path. The starched glove of the guard held the glass doors open, we shifted inside.

The room was the same size as my second grade school cafeteria.  The only difference was that instead of a raised stage for school talent shows and the 5^th graders graduation, there was a raised play room. Its glass windows looked out onto an array of inmates, their families and scattered plastic patio tables below.  Its walls were filled to the brim with sock puppets, Duplos, markers, and anything else that could neither be hazardous if swallowed, nor turned into a weapon.

“Go grab us a table, Boo. How about that one?” My mother pointed to a beige plastic table, and swerved off to talk to the guard behind the desk so she could ‘report the name of our intended visitation for request and paging.’  I watched the double doors to the right of the guards’ desk, without blinking and when my eyes began to sting I turned away, getting comfortable in my plastic chair, feet curled under me, picking at the tattering hem of my jeans, waiting for the electronic announcement that the door would be opening for us.

A heavy-set woman with long braided black hair and a pale pink inmate uniform plopped down across the table from me, a small boy tagged along behind her, clinging to her shirt sleeve.  Her family was watching from across the room, where they sat at their own plastic table.

“Rosie is that you? PAM IS THIS YOUR DAUGHTER? My gosh! You’re so much bigger each time I see you! How have you been? You’re looking so grown up! Do you remember me? No, you probably don’t remember me. My name’s Leticia and I’m a friend of your aunt’s. Are you here to see your aunt? How long have you been waiting? She should be out any moment now…” Leticia trailed off and looked up to see if my mother was coming back. I smiled up at her, attempting to convey the answers to all her questions, even the ones that had come and gone too quickly for me to understand.

Yes I am Rose, I do vaguely remember you, you played monopoly with us last month, you let me win. I’m fine lately, thank you. Pam and I haven’t been waiting long, there are no lines today, but we were lucky to get this table.  How’s your health?

Leticia’s piercingly friendly eyes failed to translate these things from my weak, gap-toothed smile, and as my mother rolled up she turned her attention toward my mother.  They smothered eachother in questions, about obscure times and names and I simply picked at the hem of my jeans, and watched the bits of blue thread fall on the pale clean floor. I was waiting for the sound.

BUZZEEEP-BUZZEEEP-BUZZ-BUZEEEP.

The pale pink doors ground their way open, beeping as they slid into the walls. Slowly. Leticia smiled and left her plastic chair to return to her family.  I dropped my feet, letting them hang towards the floor. I hovered at the edge of my seat. Then she emerged, a guard on each arm. In she walked, a little lady with short white hair. 

They held her elbows. I hovered at a distance. They held. I hovered.  They let go and walked away. I bolted into her arms. The doors beeped shut in the background. I hugged her little waste and felt accomplished when my arms went all the way around. Then I let go. We were allowed two hugs; one upon entering and one upon leaving.  I had used up half of my quota for the day. 

            I was told she was my aunt, though I was never really clear on the direct relationship.  It didn’t really matter who she was; this woman made my mother happy.  When my mother was happy I didn’t have to worry. When she was happy, nothing needed to be done better or fixed. When we were here, I was simply released to the play area. Free to roam the glass room that looked over the visitors and starched guards below. Here I lost myself in markers and in the life stories of sock puppets.

            I picked up a green sock with a black hat and slid it over my hand.  “My name is Leticia and I talk very, very fast,” it said. “I like pink because I wear it and I have a brother, but I killed my husband.”  I glanced out through the window at Leticia’s brother, and reached for a blue puppet.

“My name is Leticia’s brother and you shouldn’t have done that! That was bad!”

            “Oh, ok, can I come home now?”

            “Yes you can, but we can’t tell anyone, shhhhh!”

            So the socks of Leticia and Leticia’s brother climbed into my pocket and, after making it past the barricade of markers, they remembered my aunt, went back for a pink sock, and all safely escaped into the land of fake plastic food in a Barbie jeep.

            My aunt came to retrieve me from the playroom when the grown-up talk had gotten too boring for the grown-ups.  As she opened the door I looked at Leticia sitting with her brother and two sons, and I called out,  “Leticia! Leticia! I escape-ed you!”

            The room got quiet. The guard behind the desk looked sharply up at me.  She stared deep into my eyes with an icy wrath.  I messed up.  I always messed up, and now I had messed up.  But I couldn’t figure out whether it was because I wasn’t supposed to be playing with the sock puppets, or if it was because I had said ‘escape’ wrong. Either way it had been very bad.

I wondered if they would put me behind the grating, beeping doors for such an offence. I wondered if, when they put me there, they would tell me if it was because of the socks or the word pronunciation.  I wondered if there would be another playroom, or if I would just have to sit on plastic chairs all day. Picking at my jeans.

            My mother rolled over, took my hand and led me back to our plastic table. She wasn’t smiling any more.  We were with my aunt, but she still wasn’t smiling, and it was my fault.

I figured more adult talk would make them happy again, and so I asked if I could go buy some food.  My mother gave me a nervous laugh, and a handful of quarters.  She turned back to the table.

I slid back out of my chair, hitting the floor with a thud.  I looked up quick at the guard behind the desk, was the noise too loud? Did I mess up?  No.  She was busy handing a scrabble board to an inmate’s boyfriend, she hadn’t heard. I scooped the quarters off of the table and down to my hand, making sure none fell. I then began the cross to the vending machines.

The vending machines were next to the bathrooms, and both were in an alcove where the inmates can’t go.  To get there, I had to pass the guard behind the desk.  The guard who gave out board games and sure I didn’t get more then my allotted time of hugs.

Walking past I made myself look as innocent as possible.  I kept my eyes straight ahead. I held my quarters tight, and attempted to walk with the bounce I supposed innocent people had.  It didn’t matter that I was actually innocent.  It didn’t matter that I was going to buy microwave pancakes in the vending machine.  I wanted to cross the starchy-desk-guard’s line of vision, and that alone condemned me.  I only got three steps in. 

“Where are you going?” she asked, as her head snapped up.

“Bath-roo-vend-ven-mach-food.” I stuttered. “Food.”  I opened my hand of quarters to prove my point and half spilled from my fingers, hitting the floor and spinning like little silver tops. I watched them roll away.

“Well go ahead then.” She turned back to her papers, which were scattered in tidy piles across the desk.  I dove for the rolling quarters. Scampering from one to the next, hunched over, trying to move quickly and tripping over my awkwardly bent knees. Both fists clenched around the remaining money I darted into the little room.

A square black button made the boxes spin around behind the glass. Pancakes. E5. $1.25. I entered the quarters one by one, hit the buttons and, after several tries I convinced the little clear door to slide open. My other hand was still full of the remaining quarters. I stood there for a moment. One hand kept the little door open, the other tried to figure out how to grasp the box inside.

I began to bend down slowly, maybe if I just set the quarters on the ground… CRACK! My grip had loosened and the little door had slammed itself shut, locking in place.

E5. $1.25.  I tried again. Sliding more quarters into the gaping little slot. The door unlocked and once again I slid it open.  But again the same problem, my hand still held quarters.  So I let them go.  They went spinning to the floor, dancing off behind the water fountain and bouncing off of the wall. I grabbed my pancakes and let the little door crack shut.  Then I set the pancake box on the ground and scampered about, bent and tripping over awkward knees, picking up quarters.

Next came the microwave, and an eventless 40 seconds of radiation later, the box was hot.  With remaining quarters in one hand, and pancakes in the other, I scurried back across the gaze of the guard, back to our plastic table, back to my chair. 

The adult conversation had made them happy again, and they chattered softly about people I didn’t know. I opened my little brown box. The pancakes came with syrup already on them, and it had warmed up and was seeping though the bottom of the cardboard. They were soggy and warm and pure sugar. 

“Where are the quarters Rosie?” My mother held out her hand for the change, and I handed her back 75cents. “How much did those cost?”

“One-twenty-five.”

“So what else did you spend it on?”

“Nothing else. I had to pay twice, and I think some are under the water fountain.”

My mother sighed. She unlocked her wheels and turned toward the starchy guard, rolling over to her desk in one swift push.  I couldn’t hear, but after a few minutes of my mothers vigorous hand motions the woman unlocked her desk and counted out quarters onto the table. My mother rolled back looking smug.

The guard got up, walked to the front doors, and flicked the lights three times. On and off, on and off, on and off, and back on. Everyone jumped up and began cashing in on the second round of hugs. The quite murmur of the room erupted into laughter and tears and promises to come again, and to send that letter, and to send that photo, and to send that money, and to remember.

The guard flicked the lights again, and the women all lined up at the grating door.  Pale pink, green and white uniforms lined the walls.  More guards came, and they moved down the row, patting each woman down. But my mother turned me away, and we faced the empty glass doors. She forced a smile, and we were led back down the path.

At the bungalow we held up the inky blobs on our wrists, and had our personal effects returned. They took the socks out of my pockets.  I apologized silently to the puppets of Leticia, Leticia’s brother, and my aunt.  I’ll get you out next time, I thought, and ran to hold the door open for my mother to roll into the outside world. 

We went slowly back to the van. She didn’t sing in the car, but spoke of lawyers and re-trials and evidence. She talked about the time her house burned down.  Talked about how my aunt and her and other unfamiliar names had tried to change the world.  How maybe it was a little extreme but they had tried. Maybe it was a mistake, but they thought it was right. She told me that when she left her parents house the first thing she did was eat cookies for breakfast, and we could have cookies if I wanted. I didn’t want cookies. I wanted my socks. I wanted her to stay happy.

Her voice faded into the road as we drove out of the base, into the town, then out of the town and into the hills. Her voice faded in my mind and I focused on the song rattling out of the tape deck.

“-how many years must a white dove sail, before she can sleep in the sand?-”  I didn’t know the lyrics, and turned them over in my mouth, whispering them a few words behind the singer.

“-the answer my friend is blowing in the wind, the answer is blowing in the wind.-”