In The Sanctuary Of Outcasts_ A Memoir Part 2

Summer

Ella Bounds

CHAPTER 6.

The guard banged his flashlight against the end of my cot and pointed it at my face. I sat up, covered my eyes, and told him I'd be right down. It was still dark outside. I looked over at Doc's alarm clock. 3:45 A.M A.M.

Doc moaned, "You've gotta get another job."

I had been a.s.signed to the 4:00 A.M A.M. to 1:00 P.M P.M. s.h.i.+ft in the cafeteria, six days a week. My pay: fourteen cents an hour. I was short on sleep. The inmates on my hallway stayed up until midnight playing dominoes, and instead of placing the dominoes down on the table, they slapped them down. The sound was like a firecracker. When the guards finally did break up the games, the snoring started. A half-dozen men, most of them over three hundred pounds, suffered from sleep apnea. They wore breathing machines, and their snores echoed up and down the hall. If the noise weren't enough, two lights in the hallway remained on twenty-four hours a day. One of them, outside our doorway, cast a bright beam of light onto my bunk. I learned to sleep with my arm over my eyes.

I dressed in one of my green uniforms and walked the long, empty corridor toward the entrance where the leprosy patients lived. The hallways smelled musty and sweet. The door dividing the two sides was secured at midnight each night and was still locked, so I walked downstairs and joined a group of other inmates who were gathered in the prison courtyard waiting to be escorted to the cafeteria.

The buildings and corridors of the colony formed two huge quadrangles. The one closest to the river was reserved for the leprosy patients. The patient quadrangle contained a few gardens planted by the patients and a tombstone commemorating the first one hundred individuals who died in Carville, some of whom were identified by nothing more than initials. The other quadrangle was ours. Surrounded by the two-story concrete walkway, the inmate courtyard was outlined by a quarter-mile serpentine walking track. Inside the track, the prisoners had access to a weight-lifting area and stationary bikes. The cafeteria building had been built in one corner of the leprosy patient quadrangle.

The stagnant summer heat, even at this hour, was heavy. The colony rarely felt a breeze because it sat at the base of the levee. The dead air and humidity pushed temperatures to a hundred degrees on most summer days. Within minutes of venturing outside, I felt perspiration soak into my s.h.i.+rt.

As we waited for the guard, I noticed the other inmates wore thick gloves, winter caps, and heavy jackets. I asked Jefferson, a skinny kid from New Orleans, why they wore cold-weather gear.

"He don't know s.h.i.+t, do he?" he said to the others. Then they tapped one another's fists. I was out of my element and felt stupid. A guard finally arrived, and we walked together to the cafeteria.

I had two jobs: was.h.i.+ng dishes and writing menu boards. It seemed strange that the guards would bother with a menu board since we didn't have a choice about what was served. But food was important here. Everything I had ever read about prison suggested that weapons or drugs or whiskey or some other contraband would be the convicts' primary concern. Here food was currency, particularly fruit, which was reserved for the leprosy patients. Lemons, bananas, and oranges brought up to five dollars each. Strawberries, cantaloupes, and honeydew melons were rare delicacies. The only way for prisoners to get fruit was for an inmate to smuggle it from the cafeteria.

The lunch menu included barbecue pork, so on the menu board, I sketched an ill.u.s.tration of President Clinton skewering a pig. I finished both boards in less than an hour. Since I didn't have to be in the dish room for another two hours, I walked through the industrial kitchen to see what the other inmates were doing.

The kitchen was empty. I checked the dish room and the dry goods warehouse. The stoves and cutting stations and mixers sat unused. I opened the door to the large walk-in cooler. The shelves were stacked with vats of mayonnaise, large blocks of b.u.t.ter, gallons and gallons of milk, and boxes of lettuce, tomatoes, and other vegetables. At the rear of the cooler, I saw a boot propped on top of a produce box. Jefferson and five other inmates sat in the back of the cooler, winter caps pulled tight over their ears, hands stuffed into coat pockets. The men were wedged between some half-empty boxes stacked against the back wall, sound asleep. With each exhale, soft steam floated out from their noses and mouths.

I went back into the main cafeteria and made a cup of coffee. Dark, strong New Orleans chicory coffee. I picked up a copy of USA Today USA Today. The room was quiet and still, and the smell of b.u.t.tery dough reminded me of my high school cafeteria. I sat, sipped my coffee, read the paper, and wondered how breakfast would ever be ready with everyone napping in the cooler. The "Life" section of the paper featured a soon-to-be-released summer blockbuster film. I thought about taking Little Neil to see it. We would go on opening night, maybe to the Prytania Theatre, where the lines wouldn't be as long, or maybe Ca.n.a.l Center. We would have a quick dinner at Gautreaux's, get to the cinema early, and grab a seat in the front row with the other kids.

For a moment, lost in the story, I had forgotten. My son would see the movie, but not with me.

Through a lattice wall dividing the prisoner and patient dining rooms, I saw the old woman in the antique wheelchair cranking around in the leprosy side of the cafeteria. She saw me, too, and motioned for me to come over. I was growing accustomed to her chanting and her smile. And even though at first I didn't want to breathe the same air, for some reason, she seemed harmless and sweet. Maybe it was learning about how she had been abandoned as a young girl.

I folded the paper, grabbed my coffee, and walked around the lattice.

"You're up early, aren't you?" I asked.

"Yep," she said. "Already had my bath, too."

I asked if I could bring her some coffee.

She nodded.

"How do you like it?"

"Black with sweets-and-low," she said. "Lots of sweets-and-low."

Rather than handing her the coffee cup, I put it on the table. I wanted to talk, but I also didn't want to get too close. I sat down opposite her. Each square table was set with two chairs-the other two sides were left open for wheelchairs. She picked up the plastic coffee mug with both hands. The skin on her fingers looked like she had just applied lotion. She had all ten of her fingers. No sign of her body's absorbing digits like Doc had described, but she was mindful with the coffee. She kept her eyes focused on the mug because, I a.s.sumed, she could not actually feel it. She took a sip and carefully placed the cup back on the table.

"My name is Neil," I said, hoping for her name in return, but she just smiled and nodded. "What's your name?"

She answered, but I couldn't understand her. I wasn't sure if she said Cella or Ella or maybe even Lola. I asked her again.

She spelled it out in a gravelly voice, "E-L-L-A."

We were all alone and I had an hour before the inmates arrived for breakfast, so I continued. "I live in New Orleans," I said, "but Mississippi is home. What about you?"

"I was born in Abita Springs, Louisiana," she said. "But this is my home." She picked her coffee up again. She held the cup between her palms and s.h.i.+fted in her chair. "How long you gotta stay?"

"About a year."

"Long time," she said. "Long time."

We sat quietly for a moment, then Ella let out a soft sigh. "You can be my guest," she said, "least 'til you get back to your place."

Ella was trying to make me me feel better, even though she had been here for decades. feel better, even though she had been here for decades.

"So," I asked, "how did you end up here?"

Ella leaned back in her wheelchair, settling in. "Abita Springs," she said in a whisper. "Nineteen hundred and twenty-six. I was in grade school."

According to Ella, a doctor had visited the one-room schoolhouse to administer shots. The raised oval spots on her leg where the pigmentation had disappeared had caught his attention. He p.r.i.c.ked the blotches with a needle. Ella felt nothing.

"Next week, white man drives up," Ella said, "and I seen the Carroll boy pointin' outside. 'Oooh, Ella,' he say, 'bounty hunter fixin' to carry you away.' I look out and seen the man leanin' on his truck, wearin' the dark gla.s.ses, arms crossed all tight."

A hand-painted sign-large enough to be seen from neighboring farms and which would later be nailed to the side of her family's tenant house-extended from the back of the white man's pickup truck. Ella couldn't read the long word scrawled in large red letters. Later she would understand: "Quarantine."

The schoolteacher put a hand on Ella's shoulder, pulled her up from her desk, and led her outside. The other children ran over to the window. The teacher walked her across the small schoolyard toward the truck that idled at the edge of the field. The bounty hunter uncrossed his arms and pushed back his coat to expose a pistol. The teacher stopped and took her hand off Ella's shoulder. The man pointed to the back of the truck, and Ella climbed in.

As he drove away Ella looked out through the wooden slats. Her teacher stood with her hands over her mouth. Her cla.s.smates' frozen faces filled the schoolhouse window.

Ella sipped her coffee and took a break. I didn't say a word. I waited for her to go on with her story. For the first time in as long as I could remember, I was patient. I had no place to go. No meetings. No deadlines.

There was something remarkable about this woman. The way she held herself, and her eyes. She seemed to possess unwavering confidence. Or maybe it was strength. But at the same time, she was gentle and friendly.

For a moment, I had forgotten she might be contagious. She was so vibrant. My mother would have been able to tell me all about her wonderful aura. It was hard to believe Ella carried a debilitating disease.

A guard pushed through the swinging kitchen door and called out for me. "Inmate!" he yelled. "Get over here."

I hurried toward the kitchen. The guard was a short white man with red hair and a moustache that needed to be trimmed. His pants were too tight. The gray material was stretched tight against his thighs. He looked uncomfortable.

"No fraternizing with patients," he said.

Ella heard and looked directly at the guard. "We jes talkin'."

"Yes, ma'am, sorry to interrupt," he said, with deference. "I need this inmate in the kitchen."

Ella called out to me, "See you tomorrow."

CHAPTER 7.

Toward the end of my first week of work in the cafeteria, I was drawing a hot dog in handcuffs on the menu board when a guard told me to report to the visiting room at 9:00 A.M A.M. for admission and orientation.

About twenty other prisoners were already seated at round tables. On one side, a group of young black men slumped down in their chairs. On the other sat an a.s.sortment of white and Hispanic men, young and old, and a couple of men in wheelchairs. They all wore orange jumpsuits, the kind criminals wear during transport by the U.S. marshal. They looked as if they hadn't slept or bathed in days. I was the only inmate wearing green. I felt uneasy and took a seat in the back away from the others.

Three men sat at a long table in the front of the room: a prison guard, a man who was dressed like the surgeon general, and the monk I'd seen on my first day. The monk stood and held up his arms. The room quieted.

"h.e.l.lo," he said in a soft voice, "I'm Father Reynolds. I'm glad you're all here." He realized what he'd said and tried to back up. "I don't mean I'm glad you're here here. What I mean to say is-uh-as long as you have to be here...I'm glad to see you."

Father Reynolds stammered nervously for a few minutes. When he finally calmed down, he told us we were welcome at the Catholic church on Wednesday evenings or Sunday afternoons. He added that we could attend the Sunday service with our families during visiting hours. Then he prayed. I was relieved that I would be able to go to church with Linda and the kids when they visited. I had a.s.sumed we'd be without church together for a long time. I looked forward to holding Linda's hand while a priest talked about forgiveness.

The guard reviewed the prison rules and gave us each a set of written regulations. He covered inmate boundaries, visiting hours, contraband, and requests for medical needs. He spent an inordinate amount of time on mail restrictions, emphasizing that nude photographs of spouses were prohibited. He also warned that any mail containing pubic hairs would be confiscated and discarded. The guard cautioned that any violation of the rules would result in time added to our sentences. I tried to pay close attention, but I was distracted. One of the men in an orange suit, a black man in his late twenties, had turned his chair away from the presenters. He didn't listen to what the guard said; instead, he stared directly at me, squinting like he might need gla.s.ses. Every so often he shook his head and looked around the room like he expected others would be staring at me, too. He was a small man with huge teeth. He didn't look particularly dangerous, but I realized I probably wasn't good at gauging that sort of thing. I tried not to look in his direction, but I could feel his stare.

After the guard finished, a few inmates asked questions about money and television access. Another asked if the female guards were allowed to strip-search us. "You wish," the guard said.

Then the man who stared at me put his hand in the air and turned back toward the front. "I heard there was a 50 percent chance we was gonna be leopards leopards when we get out of here." The other men in orange nodded and said they had heard the same thing. The man dressed like C. Everett Koop said he would cover that after a break, but he a.s.sured us we were not at risk. when we get out of here." The other men in orange nodded and said they had heard the same thing. The man dressed like C. Everett Koop said he would cover that after a break, but he a.s.sured us we were not at risk.

We were released for fifteen minutes. Most of the inmates went outside behind the building to smoke. An elaborate wooden deck had been built onto the back of the visiting room. Picnic tables and bench seats were scattered around. The deck led to a small gra.s.sy yard surrounded by a low picket fence. A wooden playground set built to look like a pirate s.h.i.+p had been erected for the children of inmates. Neil and Maggie would like it.

I sat on a bench and listened to the inmate with big teeth announce to his friends that he hoped he did did turn into a turn into a leopard leopard because he could sue the prison for a million dollars and he would be the richest d.a.m.n because he could sue the prison for a million dollars and he would be the richest d.a.m.n leopard leopard in America. Then he noticed me sitting alone. He motioned to his friends and walked toward me with five of his orange-clad buddies in tow. "G.o.dd.a.m.n!" he announced. "You look in America. Then he noticed me sitting alone. He motioned to his friends and walked toward me with five of his orange-clad buddies in tow. "G.o.dd.a.m.n!" he announced. "You look just just like motherf.u.c.kin' Clark Kent!" like motherf.u.c.kin' Clark Kent!"

His friends laughed. I straightened my gla.s.ses.

"What you did?" he asked. "f.u.c.k the judge's daughter!?" His voice, high pitched with the tempo of a comedian's, didn't sound dangerous at all. He talked loud and laughed at his own words. The other inmates moved closer.

I told him my crime was bank fraud.

"You a G.o.dd.a.m.n bank robber!?"

"No, no. Bank fraud fraud." I explained I had encountered some difficulty with cash flow. My crime, I told him, involved the transfer of checks from one account to another in order to buy time to refinance my magazine business.

"I don't know nothing about no checks," he said, "but let me ask you a question." He looked around to make sure he still had an audience. "Did you take money from a bank you wasn't supposed to have?"

The other inmates waited for my answer. "Yes." I nodded.

"Then you're a G.o.dd.a.m.n bank robber!" I didn't argue the point. No one would have heard me over the hand slapping and laughter anyway. He leaned toward me. "How much you get?"

I told him I used the money for payroll, taxes, printing, and other publis.h.i.+ng expenses. I could tell he didn't believe me.

"How much the bank lost?"

"Two banks were involved, actually," I said. "Together their losses were about $750,000."

He looked excited. "So, how much you got?"

"I don't have any of it," I reiterated. "I paid bills."

"I been in jails all over this country," he announced, still playing to the other inmates, "and you the stupidest stupidest d.a.m.n criminal I ever met." d.a.m.n criminal I ever met."

I was embarra.s.sed to be the brunt of his routine, but he had a point. I was in prison and I had nothing to show for it. I had to admit the guy was pretty entertaining.

"By the way," I said, "my name is Neil."

"Ain't no more," he said. "You got a prison name now. And it's motherf.u.c.kin' Clark Kent."

I asked his name.

"They call me Link."

"Why Link?"

Another inmate interjected, "As in 'the missing...'"

I stood and held out my hand, "Nice to meet you, Link."

"G.o.dd.a.m.n!" he said, looking at my extended hand. "This is prison. You ain't got to be using manners and s.h.i.+t."

For the second time since I'd been at Carville, my hand had been rejected. I wouldn't make that mistake again.

CHAPTER 8.

After work the following day, I returned to my room to find Mr. Flowers, a tall black man in a cowboy hat, standing in the doorway. Flowers was the case manager for our dorm, which meant he had complete authority over us, including our release dates, security level, recommendations for halfway house, and approval for home confinement. The white inmates in our dorm hated him. Most called him "Le Roy Rogers." Flowers motioned with his clipboard. He and Doc were engaged in a heated discussion. Mr. Flowers said that all federal inmates who were not U.S. citizens were to be deported, and, according to his records, Victor Dombrowsky was born in Portugal. Roy Rogers." Flowers motioned with his clipboard. He and Doc were engaged in a heated discussion. Mr. Flowers said that all federal inmates who were not U.S. citizens were to be deported, and, according to his records, Victor Dombrowsky was born in Portugal.

"I wasn't born in Portugal," Doc told him.

Flowers insisted the prison records verified his Portuguese birth. If Doc was lying, he said, he would make it a personal priority to see him deported immediately.

"Fine by me," Doc said. "I was not born in Portugal."