Sing Her Down, page 3
The other is a new girl, too much high shine and polish, as if the outside hasn’t fully rubbed off yet. Bad checks, identity theft, some kind of skim game, if Florida had to guess. She’s young, mid-twenties, with an infuriating freshness Florida wants to slap off her cheeks.
“You know what this is all about?” the new girl asks Jackson.
“I don’t know,” Jackson says, her words drawling with frustrated patience.
The new girl whirls round so she’s up in Florida’s face. “What about you? Do you know?”
“What do you think?” Florida snaps, sliding down the bench.
They are sitting opposite one of the all-purpose classrooms for everything from parenting to creative writing to office training.
“So what? What is this?” the new girl says. “We in trouble. What’d we do? I didn’t do shit. I didn’t do anything.”
“You’re in prison,” Jackson says. “You did something.”
The door to the classroom opens and a CO pokes his head out. “Baum?”
Florida rolls her eyes. Last to arrive, first on the chopping block.
“You worried?” the new girl says. “You think it’s going to be bad?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Florida says. “Wait your turn.”
Marta wants you to know they don’t come back.
Florida heads for the open door.
Before she can enter, she comes face-to-face with another prisoner on her way out. Dios.
Florida freezes and takes a step back. Dios stays put. She cocks her head, giving Florida the once-over, top to toe. Her lips are pursed with amusement, fury, or frustration, it’s hard to guess. She relaxes her mouth into a wide, cruel smile. “Florida,” she says. “Guess we both got them fooled.”
Her black hair is slicked back into a ponytail, curls slithering over her shoulders as she towers over Florida. There’s a flicker in her cheekbones, a slight muscle twitch—some barely suppressed emotion that’s rippling to the surface.
“I’ll be seeing you, you know, out and about.” Dios jerks her chin slightly, then shapes her thumb and pointer finger into the shape of a gun and places it at Florida’s temple. Florida steps aside as Dios pushes past her with a shoulder check just because.
“Baum,” the CO barks again, as if she’s at fault for not entering sooner.
The room has been cleared. All but one of the desks have been pushed to the edges. A single table sits in the center of the room. Behind it is Officer Markum, the lead CO for the unit, staring down at the top folder on a small stack of files. Next to the stack is a telephone, its cable stretched to the max from the jack on the wall.
The door shuts behind Florida. The other CO stands guard, as if Florida might make a break for it.
“Number,” Markum barks. He’s middle-aged with the moon pallor of someone who has spent his life indoors. His face is cratered with pits—a permanent dark-side shadow cast—deepening his hostile lunar appearance.
Florida spews out the digits that have become her surrogate identity.
“Sit,” Markum says.
The walls are papered with materials for different classes. A faded poster with a poem by Langston Hughes. Another with Walt Whitman’s words in fussy cursive. Opposite these is a diagram showing simple yoga positions. There’s a whiteboard on the back wall with half-wiped figures probably left over from a basic accounting or business admin certificate program. In the top left corner of the board is a single word: Trust.
Florida slumps into the hard plastic chair. Markum looks up from the file. “Florence Baum?” His voice is weary and worn, as if whatever business is in front of him is unpleasant and exhausting.
Florida grips the edges of her seat. She can feel her palms start to slick with moisture.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
Florida holds Markum’s gaze. But she’s not seeing him, not really. Instead, it’s Tina’s battered face—a rotten, trampled eggplant—staring back at her.
Fucking Dios. Always fucking Dios.
Florida counts back—more than seven months since the night of the blackout and the only fallout is people giving Dios wider berth than before. Until—
“Baum? Do you know why you are here?” Markum reaches for the phone on his desk. He waits for her reply, his hand hovering over the telephone.
“Do you know why you’re here?” This time his voice is strained.
Florida blinks, trying see Markum behind the scrim of Tina’s death mask.
“I-I-I made a few mistakes,” Florida stammers. “I haven’t been perfect. But I’ve done well here. I’ve—”
Markum holds up a hand, silencing her. Then gives his head a hard, swift shake, as if Florida’s response is so off base it hurts. He lifts the receiver to his ear and repeats her DOC number. “Baum, Florence,” he adds, with a look at Florida like she has to confirm this information. “All right,” he says into the receiver. His eyes meet hers. “I have a representative from the governor’s office on the line. Because of the ongoing health crisis, I have been instructed to inform you that you meet the criteria for early release. As of today, May 19, 2020, your sentence is being commuted.”
Florida stares at him, thoughts breaking so hard and fast she feels like she might pass out.
“Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
“Yes,” Florida says. She’s heard his words, but she’s not exactly up to speed.
“Accepted,” Markum says into the phone, and replaces the receiver.
“Why me?”
Markum makes a note on the file before him and shuffles through the paperwork. “Does it matter?” He glances at her file. “Background, ease of reintegration. It’s a formula. Your name came up. Upon release you will be required to quarantine for two weeks. If you do not have a place in state to do that, a motel room will be provided to you.”
“I don’t have anything in state.”
“If you cannot afford accommodation when your quarantine period is over, you may move into a state-run group home.”
“I’m from California. I can’t quarantine here.”
“The conditions of release stipulate that you remain in the county for the quarantine period. If, after two weeks, you move to another county, you will be assigned a new parole officer in that county. All of this will be explained to you in the next few days.”
“And if I want to leave the state?”
“You will need to apply through Interstate Compact for a transfer.”
“Can I do that before I am released?”
Markum slams his pen down on the desk and closes Florida’s file. “I wouldn’t bet on it.” He nods toward the CO standing by the door. “Send in the next one.”
“So I have to remain in Arizona?” Florida sputters. “I don’t know anyone here. I don’t have anything here.”
Markum looks down at her file, scanning for her name. “Baum. I have twenty of these to process today. Just count your blessings. You’ll receive further instructions tomorrow—your condition-of-release paperwork and so on.”
“When am I getting out?” Florida asks.
“That’s the first reasonable thing I’ve heard come out of your mouth,” Markum replies. “Seventy-two hours. Enjoy the rest of your stay.”
He looks away. Interview over.
Florida staggers into the hallway. There are tears rolling down her cheeks. Six months of her life handed back in an instant.
“What the fuck?” The newbie is up on her feet and face-to-face with Florida. “What the fuck is all of this? What did they do to you in there?”
Florida blinks, trying to figure out what just happened.
“What the fuck. What the fuck. You better tell me what’s up,” the woman says.
“Get your ass away from me,” Florida says, shoving past her. Who the fuck is this woman? A few months in and already she’s getting out?
“Oh shit, I’m not going in there,” the woman pleads. “I didn’t do shit. I didn’t do fuck-all.”
* * *
There’s nowhere to be alone but in her cell and she’ll have enough of that later, so Florida goes to the common area, which is less used these days due to everyone trying to keep their distance. When she can make calls she’ll try her mother first, then her father. But she knows she’ll fail to reach them and if she does, they’ll be of no immediate help. Her father is off the grid in New Mexico and her mom is probably in Oman or Thailand, pretending to help others while indulging herself.
There are about twelve women scattered around the twenty tables, in groups no larger than two. Florida finds an empty spot and sits. She keeps her back to as much of the room as she can, holding on to this moment, saving it for herself before it becomes community property of gossip, whispers, speculation, and lies.
“Florida, did you ever wonder why you’re so lucky?”
Dios swings into the empty seat next to her, her high forehead looming over Florida. “Did you ever take a moment to consider that you are one lucky-ass motherfucker? A real lady of fortune?”
Florida glances around the dismal common area and the two levels of cells that rise above it on three sides. “Some luck,” she says.
“Tick-tock,” Dios says. “Soon the lucky bird gets to fly the coop.”
“You’re getting out too.”
“Stopped to wonder why?” Dios’s green eyes are inches from Florida’s face. Despite the harsh light, her skin has a golden glow. “Have you, Florence? Or are you just racing ahead to the next thing, like none of this matters? Like it didn’t happen at all?”
Dios yanks Florida by the shoulder and spins her around so she’s facing the room. “Look at them.” She points at the women scattered about the tables, her other hand still digging into Florida’s arm. “How come it’s you and not them?”
“I don’t need your shit.”
“You assume everything just goes without saying? Play the state’s game and claim your reward just because you’re you.” Dios tugs Florida’s frizzled blond ponytail, yanking her head side to side. “It. Doesn’t. Work. That. Way.” A final tug, this time pulling Florida’s head back so far she’s staring at the ceiling.
“This is over, Dios. Three more days and this is over.”
Dios leans close to Florida, her nose inches from Florida’s own, her breath hot on Florida’s lips. “It’s never over. It just is.”
Florida feels the tight inhale-exhale of Dios’s restrained fury.
“How come you haven’t learned that? How come you still think one day you’ll just return to your comfortable house, your comfortable life, your precious car, and all of this will be a memory that belongs to someone else? Do you actually still think after everything you’ve seen in here that your mommy can just pay the past away?”
Florida feels the heat rise in her like a fire tearing through a canyon—ripping, destroying, devouring. She clenches her fists, then rolls her shoulders, trying to find a sliver of cool calm. “I don’t think—”
“Oh yes you do. I know exactly what you think. I didn’t spend a year sleeping below you for nothing. This world is not your world and these women not your women. And your fucking crimes have nothing to do with you. But this is your life, Florida, even if you’ve spent nearly three years pretending otherwise.” Dios wraps a hand around each of Florida’s wrists. “Imagine,” she says. She pulls in opposite directions. Florida’s skin burns. She feels Dios’s fingers pressing down to her bones. “Imagine,” Dios says, her lips pressed to Florida’s ear as the pain in her wrist ignites, her thumb working between tendon and sinew. “What if I didn’t fucking stop? If I keep pressing and pulling.”
Florida squeezes her eyes shut to block out the pain. But it comes hard and fast, swamping her rage with white-hot hurt. She can feel Dios’s fingers in her wrist, digging, worrying the cords that hold her together, feeling for a fault line that she can use to snap Florida in two.
“Imagine if I kept pressing, freed your hand from your body, got down to the gory pulp of your wrist with all its dangling veins and tendons, and the only thing you said was—she was high,” Dios says. She lets go.
Florida grabs her wrist, cradles it to her chest, assuring herself it’s intact.
Sweat has exploded on Florida’s brow. Her pulse thumps in her throat. Her chest burns. Florida swallows hard. “So what? I’ve been lying to everyone because they took into consideration that I was under the influence when I drove away from the scene? You think they should keep me in because of that? Everyone in here is a liar, Dios. You included.”
“Florida—I don’t care whether you get out or not. And I don’t care who you lie to in order to do it.” Dios’s eyes are glittering menace. “All I care about is you stop lying to yourself. You’re not rehabilitated. You don’t want to be. That’s another lie you tell yourself.” Dios gestures at a table of women across the room, both past middle age, both inside paunchy and pale, probably doped on the state-issued meds that make all the days seem the same. “Look at them. Look how numb they are. They’ve been drugged and fooled into submission. They’ve accepted that they are exactly who the state has made them—addicts, victims, whatever. They’ve let themselves be told they weren’t fully in control when they did whatever they did on the outside. And that’s the story they’re going to tell everyone forever and always.” She raises her voice. “Look at all of you. Look at yourselves. You’ve forgotten who you were before you came into this place. They tricked you, drained your strength. They made you regret your actions.” Dios laughs. “You’re all numb. But not you, Florida.” She stoops down, so she and Florida are face-to-face.
Florida feels anything but numb. She is live-wire electricity. She is molten rage. But she can’t let Dios see.
A slow, deep breath. Just drive. Her hands on the wheel. The windows down. The breeze hitting her face hard as she takes the curve in the road as if it were part of her own body. Seventy-two hours.
“No matter where you go,” Dios says, “know that I know the truth. You aren’t a misguided little rich girl who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Remember, Florida, I was sent to school with girls like that. So many girls like that. So many misguided rich girls. And what I did learn? To be only half of what I could be. My background was something I had to outrun in order to succeed. I couldn’t be me, only them—these half-people. And I know something else. You are only half of what you are too. There’s something inside you you’ve kept hidden from the world.”
“You don’t know a fucking thing, Dios.”
“Oh, I do. I know everything. You know what else I learned in high school and in college paid for by people like your mother? I learned that they were giving me the tools to dismantle the system. They were giving me a behind-the-scenes tour of the control room. I learned what makes them tick. Violence and fear. Same as anyone else. And I learned how quickly they can turn. How quickly their charity turns to hatred.” Dios’s eyes glint with green poison. “My question to you, Florida, is, whose side are you on?”
“No one’s,” Florida says.
Dios wraps a hand around one of Florida’s. “But I know what lives inside this fist. I know what you want to do.”
Florida clenches her hand within Dios’s. “You don’t know shit. Just because you went to some fancy-ass schools doesn’t mean you know the first thing about me.”
“We don’t have to talk about this now,” Dios says, her voice slippery and slick. She lets go of Florida. “We’ll have all the time in the world when those gates close behind us.”
Florida stands so she’s chest to chest with Dios. “You and I have nothing outside this place.”
“Look how hot you burn,” Dios whispers. “You can’t stand it, can you? You can’t stand that fire inside. Let it out.”
“No,” Florida says.
“How bad do you want to hit me?” Dios backs up and pounds her chest, marking the target. “Look at her,” she bellows for the whole room. “Look at Florida and her anger. Not so pretty now, is she? Not so quiet and docile.”
“Fuck off, Dios,” a woman calls from the far side of the room.
“Florida, are you scared? Worried because they are watching?” She makes a wide gesture with her arms at the rest of the room. “Scared they’ll see what you can do?”
“I’m warning you. Shut up, Sandoval,” the same woman repeats.
“I’ll shut up when she shuts me up,” Dios says. “Hit me, Florida,” Dios cries. “Do it.”
Florida presses her fists into her thighs.
Seventy-two hours.
“You don’t want them to see, do you? You can’t let them see.” She turns her face to the side, as if she now wants Florida to take a shot at her nose. Then she lowers her voice. “Just like you didn’t want Tina to see. Just like you couldn’t stand her knowing, even though you were the one who told her.”
Florida is red-hot, white-hot. She is burning from the inside out.
“Go on, do it,” one of the women calls.
“Yeah, go on,” Dios mocks. “Do it.”
“Do it for what she did to Tina,” the woman at the far end calls.
Dios whirls around. “You don’t know shit about Tina,” she says.
“Everyone knows,” the woman says. “Everyone knows what you did.”
Dios strides from Florida’s table and approaches the speaker and her companion. “I doubt that.” She glares from woman to woman. Then looks back over at Florida. “I really doubt that. Don’t you, Florida?”
Dios jumps up on their table and stomps hard, rattling the metal. A guard comes to the rail on the tier. Dios stomps again. “We are all Cassandra and we’ve been telling you who and what we are. But no one fucking listens.”
“Get down, Sandoval,” the guard calls.
Dios jumps down and is back at Florida’s side.
“You exist inside my knowledge. The real you exists inside me.” She flicks her fingers, the pantomime strike of a match. “I know you handed Carter those matches. Told him to burn that motherfucker down. Tina told me.” She lights an imaginary cigarette and exhales hot air in Florida’s face. “But you already knew that.”
