You think about strange things when you’re standing in line in front of a maximum-security prison, waiting to get in. The razor wire twists and tangles its way around the perimeter, each sharp point glinting in the sun. Busy spiders have spun their webs between the links of the two towering fences. It’s strange how something so beautiful would find such a home. I see the same webs, their intricate patterns shining like silvery fibers, as I set out on my early morning walks. Almost every day they are there, along the winding road that leads to our house. That’s where they should be, too—not here. You should be there, Jack. I used to pretend that you were, sometimes, when you first came here to this prison, eight years ago. I would offer you coffee in the mornings. I would read to you: all the good parts. One day I read you all of Chapter Four in The Turnbulls by Taylor Caldwell. You were my captive audience. Sometimes I would even take your favorite shirt off of its hanger and wash it with the rest of the laundry, as if you might walk in the next day and complain that it smells musty. But that was a long time ago. Now I cope; I don’t pretend. Kari asked me this morning if you were ever coming home, although I know she can’t remember you ever being there. She was only two when they took you away.

I remember everything, exactly as it happened: the radio newscast, the phone call, the shock and disbelief. The headlines the next day said that you were accused of murdering an off duty deputy, in a parking lot, behind a bar—Deputy Sergeant Carl Merritt: husband, and father of two. But you, Jack, you were unyielding about your innocence. Yes, you were there, you said, but you weren’t the one who pulled the trigger. Your friend Ray said the same thing. The judge refused to sever the trial and so you were tried together. You testified against each other. You were sure the jury would find you innocent. You were sure you could convince them, with your testimony, that he did it. They found you, drunk, and asleep, on your friend’s sofa, in his living room, just a few miles away from the dead policeman—and Jack, I just couldn’t make myself believe that you could kill someone and then go to sleep. I gave birth to our daughter, Rita, a few days later. You told me the whole story, the same one you told in court. I believed you. I believed you. I wanted to. They convicted you both of murder in the first degree: premeditated, cold-blooded murder. There were three eyewitnesses who placed you at the scene, who heard the two shots, who saw you both run to Ray’s car and speed away; but they couldn’t place the gun in your hand. I was sure none of it was really happening. Your father made a wonderful courtroom speech about how you were their only son; how you had never been in trouble before-not even a speeding ticket ... I couldn’t speak, Jack, and so I prayed with your mother. The judge sentenced you to life in prison, with a mandatory twenty-five years. I will always remember those words:

"…for the rest of your natural life."

I heard your mother’s involuntary gasp, and I saw her last prayer leave with it. Your father had given up being strong and his head hung dejectedly, the weight of the sentence on his frail shoulders: a sentence we all would serve. I prayed again, and wondered how I would tell Kari.

Sometimes I wonder if you thought of her before you went out with your friend that night. I wonder if the same question ever puzzles her. She always acts like such a happy little girt, until something seems to occur to her, and she turns into a serious, thoughtful, and almost sad looking orphan. She helped Rita with her homework the other day. A uniformed officer from the Sheriff s Department visited Rita’s third grade class. He told them that crime doesn’t pay, and how terrible it was in prison. He made them promise that they would never go there. After he left, Ms. Bishop assigned a paragraph for homework. Rita was quite confused, and as I became frustrated trying to get her through it, Kari offered her expertise.

"I did it in third grade too, Mom" she said in a serious voice, "I’ll help her."

The sun is moving higher in the sky, and the spiders’ artistry is fading. They will be opening the gates at eight-thirty. We’re fourth in line and so maybe we will get a good table. Within the hour, I will see you again. It’s the same every Sunday, and I haven’t missed one in almost eight years. The girls complain sometimes, and I miss going to church. But you need us. You said so. You need us Jack, don’t you? I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what the girls need, and what I need. I need a job that won’t find a reason to let me go when they discover that my husband is a convicted murderer. The girls need more excuses about why their father doesn’t live with them. I need someone to hold me close when I lie in bed at night. They need to say, "Mommy, Daddy’s home!" and I need to be able to say, "Wait until your father gets home!" Do you know what I would give to say those words, Jack, and have them mean soon—after work—today?

The gigantic gates slide open with a horrific noise. The noise is hard to describe. I have never been able to say exactly what it sounds like, only that I detest it. The sun is warming things up, and you can only see the spiders’ webs if you tilt your head a certain way. The ones in the gate’s path are tom and destroyed. I grab Rita’s hand and follow the others through. I can feel Kari’s fingers on my arm. This is the part she hates.

I learned a long time ago not to wear a belt with my jeans on Sundays. It sets the metal detector off, and the visitors who are waiting behind you become extremely annoyed. I remember being held up one time by a novice who spent twenty minutes taking off her jewelry, her belt, her buckled shoes, and emptying the pockets of her slacks before the incessant cry the noisy machine made stopped. Twenty minutes, Jack: our twenty minutes.

Now, it was our turn, and I put my driver’s license on the table in front of the guard. She must be new. Her nametag says "Sue Grazier" and she looks like she is going to be a grouch. The brown uniform pants stretch across her hips as if they want to tear free. The heavy black belt strains to stay in the loops that hold it. The tan shirt could have been a size larger, and when she turns a certain way, you can see between the buttons. It takes her a long time to check my license against my visiting card in the file. She watches me sign the visitor’s sheet as she picks up the phone and says in a miserable voice, "Jack Wilkins, Dorm 2." She hangs up, looks at me with disdain, and a nod of her head sends us on to the metal detector. Kari’s fingers tighten on my arm, and I gently take them away and squeeze them, saying, "Go ahead, Sweetheart, I’m right behind you." Reluctantly, she goes through. Rita, on the other hand, strolls through and comes out on the other side, hands raised in the air waiting for the next step. I follow them through.

This is the part that I hate. Most of the guards are nice with the kids and only pat them a few times, lightly, on top of their clothes; but with the wives and the girlfriends they are especially thorough. Today the officer is nice and she compliments me on my sweater. I smile at her and she smiles back as she waves the kids through without patting them down.

"Have a nice visit," she offers.

As we enter the visiting park, Rita and Kari immediately head for the table closest to the canteen, and I notice that the first person in line is already greeting her husband. An old man and woman, who I have not seen before, are sitting solemnly at a table in the corner, waiting I suppose, for their son. As he enters the room and begins to walk toward them, I sigh. I thought I had seen everything, but this boy looks as if he just turned eighteen.

"Gramma! Gramps!" he shouts in greeting, as he sprints across the room. There are tears in the old woman’s eyes. They remind me of the razor wire. I remember those tears. I know what they feel like.

The room is quite large. There are two uniformed officers stationed on each side. Thirty or so boxy tables are arranged around the room, four chairs to each. There are two sets of double doors that lead outside to a smaller grassy area, where inmates and their families can go to smoke, or in the case of the children, to play. Two guards are also on duty outside. Visitors are still arriving through the gate, but my eyes are on the door I know you will walk through.

I take a deep breath, as if steeling myself against your presence, before you even arrive. It seems I am strong when we’re apart, Jack. I think for myself. I can convince myself, easily, that I can be happy without you, and that the girls will be better off. But the instant I see you I wane. My spirit is trapped. My will is no longer my own. This time, I am prepared, though. I’ll be stronger than I usually am.

"Daddy! Daddy!"

Rita and Kari are running toward you, and when I look up, I see you walking proudly toward me, toting both of them in your arms. You make a big production of sitting them down in the chairs and telling them,

"As soon as I say hello to Mommy, we’ll get some ice cream, ok?"

I stand up and you reach for me. You hold me briefly. You kiss me briefly. You walk to the canteen, with the girls in tow. You let go of their hands long enough to tuck your blue denim shirt snugly into your same colored pants, as if it matters that it looks perfect. You buy strawberry shortcake ice cream bars, four of them, from the white uniformed inmate behind the window. Back at the table, you unwrap mine and painstakingly wind a white napkin around the stick before offering it to me. I thank you. You tell me you need new tennis shoes, and that you’ll be sending me a package permit soon. I wonder, silently, if there’s enough money in the bank. You sense something and you touch my neck with your fingers. You apply the slightest pressure with the tips just below, and a little behind, my ear. Your thumb caresses my cheek. You took through my eyes and into my mind. You put strange ideas and thoughts there. I am weak, helpless, and uncertain. I know that somewhere inside me there still lives something strong enough to break this connection, to arrest this raping of my will.

"Do you love me, Anne?"

"Yes," I whisper, "you know I do."

"Feed my sheep," you say, as if it had some enormous and profound meaning.

"Break it up, you two!"

I turn toward the gruff voice to see a tan shirt gaping open between buttons. Officer Grazier is serious about doing her job, and doing it well. Normally, I can sit with my back against your hard chest facing away from you, enclosed in your muscular arms, watching the other visitors and wondering if I am the one serving the life sentence, but today I’m sure Officer Sue won’t allow it. I am relieved.

"Can we go outside early today?" Rita questions in a low voice.

I watch you walk across the room toward the double doors. Your blond hair is thinning and your shoes still look new. You still have that same cocky walk, that confident air about you. I get the feeling that even here with your fellow miscreants you are in control. Sometimes I wish I could see indecision in your blue eyes, but they always flash with conviction. I follow you outside, feeling as if I have been following you blindly for the past eight years. Could I really leave and never come back? I wonder. I stare at Kari’s blond hair, a few strands blowing free of the tie holding it back, shining as if someone had painted it with the sun.

We go through the normal Sunday rituals. The girls play. We buy lunch from the white uniform. I pay two dollars for a Polaroid snapshot: another family portrait. You tell me that some day you will get out: someday. We have so many plans…you say. I change the subject. I look around to see where Officer Grazier is.

It’s finally time to go, and I follow you back inside. Your kiss is longer this time. You hug the girls. We exit quickly, back through the gate. It’s three o’clock. The sun is making its descent westward, and the spiders’ lacey webs are gone. Kari helps a sleepy Rita into the back seat of the car, and climbs in after her. Within minutes they are both sleeping, Rita’s head against Kari’s shoulder. I take the long way home, past the little church. No fences here, Jack: no tears—no razor wire. The sign says the early morning service starts at eight-thirty every Sunday. I grip the steering wheel, tightly, with both hands. I’m driving now, Jack. Whatever happens, I’m driving.

[Return to the Select Entries from Nota Bene 2000.]