After Perfect (20 page)

The freeway was fast and clear, and I rolled down my window to get some fresh air. Passengers in passing vehicles wore cowboy hats and vests; crosses, some with Jesus Christ, dangled from rearview mirrors. Faith felt dark as I looked out toward the border of Juarez, Mexico, just a mile to my left. Some journalists call it the most violent place in the world outside of declared war zones. And I could see it. I could see the rolling hills of black and brown dirt where dilapidated bungalows stood, and I could feel its passive anger as billows of distant smoke evaporated from piles of trash into the round blue sky. As I looked to my right, I saw the veneer of a safer place, a seemingly innocent place—America, where freedom rings, where endless rows of identical pink brick tract homes lined the vacant freeway. I was shaken by the juxtaposition of extreme poverty paralleling cookie-cutter suburbia. I was lost in the divide of it all, when Josh asked for Bob's letter. “Did you remember to bring Bob's letter, Christina?”

Bob, Mara's godfather, had sent us a letter with directions to the prison attached. It was a be-forewarned-let-me-prepare-you-for-this letter. It had been years since we'd seen or heard from Bob, and only after my father left for prison, did we reconnect. He and my father were air force buddies and had remained best friends ever since. For my father's fortieth birthday, Bob gave him a gold plaque that read “If You Ain't a Pilot, You Ain't Shit.” My father displayed it behind his desk in the library.

Just under two miles ahead is where your dad is. When you go in, leave everything in the car except your driver's licenses, your car keys, $2 or $3 of change (for vending machines). You can't take anything to him. I offered him a Life Saver yesterday, and he couldn't take it. Don't take your wallets. These guys are on a power trip and depending on the individual, they will enforce the above to the letter. It's just easier to play their game. You will get the back of your hand stamped and then you will proceed outside and through 3 gates to get to the building. Once through the first gate, you will have to pass the back of your stamped hand under an ultraviolet light (same when you leave). Once in the last building, you will walk across the room and hand your sign-in paper to the man at the desk. He will then call for your dad. There have always been other visitors in front of me at the last sign-in site, and these guards have no interest in expediting the process. When you tell him a time, don't be late. He's not going anywhere (as he would say). I hope so much you have a wonderful day with him. It will mean the world to him. I look forward to the next time I can see you and your sisters.

Love,

Bob

J
osh veered off the freeway onto a long dirt road. The road felt pointless against miles and miles of flat land around us as we accelerated toward the prison entrance. “Low La Tuna Federal Prison” was painted on a series of consecutive brown rocks. I could see the building. At first glance, it appeared beautiful and historical-looking, which I found unsettling, like an abandoned, maybe once-elegant medieval Spanish villa still with its original molding and arched windows and doorways in the middle of a vacant desert. Only now it was forgotten about: saddened by the outskirts of brown wooden power lines and barbed-wire fence where tiny boxed windows were carved out of white cement walls—no breathing sign of vegetation. Isolated and cold. As it should be.

“How you doin', kiddo?” Josh glanced over at me. I stared out the window as I felt the truth retract from my throat. How could I possibly answer such a loaded question? We were rushing into one of the most physical acts of survival, other than war. It was prison. There was no time to feel. Yet I found myself fixating on the word he used—
kiddo
—endearing but patronizing, close but distant. In our session with Sheryl, Josh had agreed to come with me to prison, but that didn't mean we were getting back together. I couldn't help but wonder what we were doing there together. I wanted to say “So what are we, Josh?” I fixated on anything but the truth, which was only that he was there to protect me, to take care of me, to support me. And I resented him for that because it meant that I was fragile, that I was unstable, which I could never admit to myself was true, though it was. Anything Josh said to me I would find a reason to twist, turn, and spit the words back at him as if he were the cruelest human being on earth, as if it were his fault.

“I'm fine,” I said.

“You sure?”

“Really, I'm actually okay.” I smiled at him.

We pulled alongside a beat-up security house. There we came face-to-face with an overweight correctional officer dressed in a uniform similar to that of the US Marines. His combat boots added an escalated element of fear, and his belt was complete with a gun, other various weapons, and handcuffs, which were buckled appropriately to his waist. His hand was clinging to his belt.

“Remember to call him ‘sir'; call him ‘sir.' ” I nudged Josh, reminding him what my father always told me when I first got my driver's license: “If you are ever pulled over by a cop, Bambina, it's ‘yes, sir,' ‘no, sir,' or ‘yes, ma'am,' ‘no, ma'am.' They like to be treated with respect.”

“Driver's license,” the guard demanded.

“Here you go, sir,” Josh said.

“Is this a rented vehicle?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Rental car agreement and vehicle license plate number.” His face expressed nothing. He was apathetic. Numb. There was no please, no thank-yous exchanged, no “Hello, how's your day going, must suck having to visit your dad in prison today” conversation. It was no place for empathy, no place for compassion, no place for feeling. I was nothing but a speck of annoyance in this man's day—just another notch on his belt, another statistic added to the United States Federal Bureau of Prisons.
“Here's another one, boss. Poor baby, welcome to prison, sweet girl. You are not special; just collateral damage now”
is what ran through my mind as I was officially handed someone else's shame.

I smiled again.

“Straight ahead into that lot, then get in line.” He signaled for us to drive through.

Per Bob's direction, we left everything in the car except our driver's licenses and a roll of quarters for the vending machines. I felt confidently ugly in my oversize sweatshirt, baggy jeans, and Converse shoes, my hair tied back in a loose bun, and wearing no makeup. Josh wore a gray hoodie, jeans, and his Converse shoes too. Despite our best efforts to fit in, we still looked out of place for prison. We were the only Caucasians other than some guards. We stood at the end of the line, and I noticed that Josh was also one of the few men. The line consisted mostly of Hispanic women and children—mothers, daughters, and a few young sons—walking hand in hand upstairs to another holding area that looked similar to a bus stop. There sat a young girl who looked like she was my age. She was pregnant and reading a novel. She'd been there before, it seemed. A pretty girl, with curly black hair. She was calm and cool, exuding peace and acceptance. I didn't know it then, but I envied her fearlessness.

We continued waiting like cattle until we were called through the first gate of the prison. There we had our right hand stamped. Then we proceeded toward the second gate, where I placed my hand under the ultraviolet black light, just as Bob had said. Next, we arrived at the official security booth, where we had to pass through metal detectors. I watched the families before me pass through first. Every time the buzzer went off, indicating something metal or illegal, it echoed throughout the waiting area. A few white-painted benches stood along the wall, but not one person sat down. All of us remained silent, cooperative; eager to pass through as efficiently as possible.

I was next in line when the guard whose job it was to motion individuals through stopped the woman in front of me. She was heavyset, with gray streaks in her hair; she looked like she was wearing her Sunday best. The guard wagged his finger at her, motioning the woman to step toward him. As she did, he felt below her breast, staring at her with intimidation. He didn't blink. The woman's young son—or grandson; I couldn't tell—was standing behind her, watching.

Through the fabric of her dress, the guard stuck his finger underneath the underwire of her bra. Then he flicked it.

“You either take this bra off and leave it right here, or we are going to have to cut out the underwire,” the guard said, leaving no room for negotiation. There was a sudden wave of humiliation across the woman's face, as she turned back to acknowledge her young boy, waiting with the rest of us.

“But,” she pleaded, “this bra . . . this bra is Victoria's Secret. It cost me a lot of money, sir. I am not hiding anything. It is just a bra.”

I knew the type of bra she was talking about. They cost anywhere from $50 to $65, easily the cost of a tank of gas to get to and from work for the week. And if she took off the bra, it would deem her inappropriate, and she would be turned away, forced to come back wearing something else. By the time she returned, visiting hours would be over.

“Step aside, ma'am,” he replied. Until she could make a decision, she was of no use to him. She meant nothing. She was nothing but another speck of an annoyance, like me. An inconvenience in this man's workday, and he could dismiss her because recreant power allowed him to do so.

I placed my hand beneath my own breasts and sighed with relief, thanking God I'd remembered to put on a sports bra. I didn't want this man coming near my body, let alone touching any inch of it.

Josh and I passed through the metal detectors alarm free. We waited in front of a series of dark-tinted windows next to what looked like a large automatic metal door. I felt eyes on me but couldn't see them. It smelled of metal too and disinfectant—the way a hospital smells. The floors were dusty, scattered with folded gum wrappers and dirty tissues. Testimonial laziness is what I'd call it.

“Clear!”
the guard yelled. My heart pounded, and I told myself,
Breathe, just breathe.
I felt as if I were a criminal, as if I'd broken the law—that I too deserved punishment, indicated by the way they treated us because we were bound by an inmate's blood. All of us were collateral damage. And this was my initiation into the United States prison system. This was my golden ticket for blame, for sorrow, for madness, my mind swaying from humiliation to fear as we passed through the windowless hallway. Guards stood with their legs spread apart at either end. The door behind us jolted shut and locked. There was no way out now. Images of the riots fluttered through my head, and I turned to look at Josh, who seemed unusually calm and steady for his typically neurotic and emotional self, reassuring me that it would be okay despite the unbearable anticipation.

H
is head of gray hair was the first thing I noticed. And also how skinny he was. He'd lost about fifteen pounds since I saw him a year earlier during his “furlough.” I figured it must have been all those endless games of Ping-Pong he played. He was by far the oldest among the inmates lined up next to him in the front of the visitor room.

They marched in a single profile line, and then stopped and faced forward. But they weren't looking at us. They weren't allowed to until permitted. They wore identical khaki jumpsuits. I wondered what the other inmates' crimes were. Drug dealing? Burglary? Rape? Murder? My father kept his chin down, and his eyes locked on one of the guards. Then he glanced down at his feet. He was wearing tan Timberland boots. These boots were popular among the boys at my high school; they'd wear them unlaced, with their khaki pants hanging down in the middle of their ass so you could see their boxer shorts. Not a good look.

My father walked over with a mischievous smirk on his face, marching toward me like an unwound toy soldier. It was the look he gave when life wasn't supposed to be taken so seriously, like the time he mooned our old neighbor, Mr. Anderson, in a dispute over the property line.

“Christina Bambina!” he cried and then swooped down to give me a hug. His silly walk and smile helped restrain the lump of tears in my throat. I wasn't going to cry. I held on to him, and he smelled of Dial soap. We were prohibited from hugging for too long. All inmates were. If you showed any great length of affection, you were at risk of being kicked out—or worse, blacklisted altogether from visiting privileges. When he put me down, he grabbed both my hands to look me over. His hands were calloused and rough, and I had trouble looking him in the eye.

Josh stood up and shook his hand. “Hello, sir, it's nice to see you again,” he said, nodding his head. “Despite the circumstances, of course.”

“It's my Mexican resort!” my father blurted out, trying to make light of the situation. He chuckled while patting Josh on the back and led us outside to one of the concrete benches in the courtyard. “For more privacy,” he said.

“You look great, Dad,” I lied, hoping he wouldn't notice how startled I was by his weight loss.

“I'm down to my old air force weight!” He made it seem as if it were on purpose. As if he was on a diet by choice.

“So. Bambina,” he continued. Not one of us wanted to talk about the fact that we were inside a federal prison. In fact, we were not in prison anymore; we were at the Four Seasons, waiting for our drinks. “How's Mom?” he asked, eagerly. “How does her hair look? Is it still
fire engine red
?” The way he said “fire engine red,” it was as though he owned her; as though her trademark was his trademark. Still his young wild thing that he was madly in love with. All my father wanted to do was talk about my mother.

“You know, the first time I met Mom, she was wearing the most god-awful dress I had ever seen: some kind of California mumu. We were at a party, and I was in law school at the time—piss poor—and my neighbor Debbie would invite me over and feed me apple pie. She made the best apple pies. And one night she had a party, and Mom showed up, and I could not, for the life of me, understand why this total knockout of a babe was wearing this . . . mumu. And she ignored me the whole night!” My father leaned back on the concrete bench, laughing so hard at the memory of her, his cheeks flushed a rosy color red.