The Queen of Tarts,
Destroyed our hearts,
All on a dreary day.
The knave of hearts,
He sold us tarts,
And stole our souls away.
“Candi, it's your turn to talk. What's on your mind?” Dr. Wagner gripes … and he says it so monotone that you can tell he ain't giving two shits about me, or any other inmate for that matter.
I stay silent a minute, just to screw with him. Him and his too-tight shoes, proper socks, and high-end watch! Hell, back in the day that watch would've cost over thirty tricks and ten lap dances. I'd have never saved it because of the coke, but that's beyond the point.
“You gave your name as Candi Heartbreak. Not an alias, is it?” Dr. Wagner asks in drone-speak that translates into, “Prison chicks look good on my country club résumé of charitable crap, aka social-climbing synopsis disguised as do-gooder dossier.”
“Naw!” I yelp, “It's my fucking birthname.” The other inmates laugh, and I am relieved. I was hooking since I was thirteen, so I know the game. I know small time: if you make 'em laugh, your charm keeps you breathing. But I've hit the big time. I ain't sure how it works on death row.
“Your birth certificate says 'Candice Hartman'. Guess when you became a stripper, your imagination failed. So, since you're new, why don't you tell us what you're in for? Who'd you kill, and why?”
I bite my lip because I was never good in the spotlight, not even way back when I started pole-dancing. And when my body got all screwed up and malnourished from the coke, hooking was just the next natural step. Street-walking came real easy to me. But this is my chance to look charming to the other girls, and by the looks of the 800 pound Marine-type bull dyke in the corner, I need a good opening act, or I'll die.
“Kill? Shit! Ain't you heard? I'm in for littering? Down in the Groves, they're real pissy about it.”
The other girls laugh, save for the cocoa-skinned Nubian queen sitting catty-corner. She'd have looked good on the pole, I'd wager. But her hair's too short in here. She barks, “You need to save that crap for your next world tour and get real. Some of us take this seriously. Some of us wanna recover!”
The oddity of the gallows being a road to salvation grates at me. Her whole fucking ridiculous “Hold your head high, and you'll make it to the Promised Land” attitude pisses me right the fuck off.
I growl, “You gonna recover from the chair, too? God just gonna descend and resurrect you? Really?”
The other women stop laughing. That scares me. The low mumble spreading like a wave of terror through them washes over me. I am devoid of the humor.
“Naw. But I still done wrong. And I still need to own it. I still need to hold myself accountable, so I can move on with whatever's left now. So get fucking real, or stop wastin' my damn time,” she snaps.
“Facing the death penalty sounds like owning it to me. Anyways who the fuck are you to judge me? You ain't in here cuz you won the lottery!” I howl and the rumble of women becomes louder. It twists like razors in my bowels. Yet, I can't stop the rant. I'm angry at this so called life. I'm angrier at her for making sense of it!
“No. I ain't won the lottery. No. You're right. I killed my kid. And there ain't never going to be a way to make peace with it. Ain't no way to bring her back. But at the least I'd like to know why I always been this fucked-up in the head. So if you don't mind, speak truth, or shut the fuck up!”
“Wow! A baby-killer acting all high and mighty! I only killed a pimp. At least I did the world a favor!”
“How? How you did the world a favor? I'll have your righteous white ass know that PIMP was somebody's child, too. Somebody's Daddy. Someone loved him, and you destroyed them, too! You ain't killed no pimp. You killed a whole family, cuz you killed whoever loved him, too.”
The women are rising, glaring, cursing. I have to hold my bowels tight because I never could fight. I always hid during brawls, mighta been my downfall. I held in all my anger, and the first time I let it out, it landed me here... on death row. I won't even walk those 13 steps. They're planning to kill me right now!
“Group's out. Line up by cell-block to be frisked, and you know the drill, ladies. Dessert as usual!” Wagner says, as if he's reading the ingredients to his friggin' award winning quiche or something.
The women groan and bitch as they line-up. I don't understand. They didn't kill me, but at the mention of “dessert as usual,” a chill ran through the room.
Is the cooking that bad? It must be pretty wicked if I fear whatever comes after lunch more than being stomped to death by lumberjack chick. ***
Dear Candi-cane,
I was real sorry to hear they caught you. They'll never understand what you did to Jack. Sometimes, I don't either. But I'm grateful just the same. I'm staying at a half-way house for unwed mothers right now. I figure I'm safe enough for a month or so. Once they figure out I'm not up-the-river, I'll be back in the streets, but it's a bed for now. A lonely bed and a roof. That's something, right? But they make us study, and I hate that. I hate math more than Sunday school, which is a lot to say if you're not even Christian. Haha.
I try to make you smile because I lost mine a long time ago. It was your jokes that brought it back... only for a minute. That and the men. But you never agreed, so I never got that far. You should have left it alone, maybe. I'm the same age as you were when you started, so I don't really see the problem. I ran away at 11. I just got real tired of picking pockets and shoplifting for years. Scraping by. Seemed more glamorous... men paying for me, as if I were pretty or something.
Anyway, in your letter you asked about me. I know you probably can't write back, now that you're convicted, but it's the least I can do. So I guess I'll tell you my secrets, since nobody ever asked before.
I remember being really happy before Daddy died. I remember we moved around a lot. He was some kind of army officer or something. Guess he got shot. He just never came home. We had this weird funeral with a casket and no body. It was all really strange. And when I asked Mama what he died from she just said, “He moved on, so now we gotta move on.”
Not a month later she brings some strange guy home. Says he's our new dad. I was so angry. I already had a dad. My mom told me then that women remarry these days, because divorcees are considered whores, but widows can still work. Problem was laundry and book-keeping weren't enough. So she married the first guy that she could get drunk enough to say yes. Said I should be proud, because even as drunk as he was he thought to ask to see all her kids' pictures. She said that meant he knew we were special.
But then, you know, he really liked to play creepy games with us … he always had a toy in his pants pocket, liked to rub up against us a lot, always insisted he watch us bathe, so's we didn't drown. I just felt so strange, like Daddy was watching me do these scary things. I got really mad at him dying... so I left. Lived in a barn 2 miles away, until I was discovered. Started breaking into warehouses and sleeping in their lofts, like a stow-away or a spy or something. It was really exciting. So taking whatever little thing, here and there, became an exciting habit. By the time I met Joey, I was already 12.
It's late. They are going to call lights out. I'll find a way to sneak this out to you. And write more later.
Hugs and kisses, loves and misses,
Caroline ***
“My name's Delores, and I'm an addict / alcoholic.”
“Hi, Delores,” the room responds, and there is a little applause. I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I had something to say … it was on the tip of my tongue a minute ago. Truth-telling is dangerous. How do I mask this and tell the new-comer the truth at the same time? I dunno. The code of silence chokes me. Some days I have no lips, no voice. That being said, I've called attention to myself, so damn the luck, here I sit.
“Yeah, I, uh... just want address that last one. Um... the Big Book says we have all got the capacity to recover IF we are honest. Yeah, and half measures and all that happy horseshit.”
(laughter)
“I just heard him say that he's pissed at his wife because she messed around and nags or whatnot. Okay, that's why we say 'Principles OVER Personalities', and for that new-comer that doesn't know what that means, um... let's see.
Okay … there are statistically 3 main reasons why we relapse. Death, finances, and relationships. The number one reason isn't death. It's relationships... it's other people, and that's mainly because we have a warped definition of what a relationship is. You can't really expect others to be honest with you if you don't even know how to be honest with your own self. If you can't be honest with you, how can you be honest with them?
Um? Also I heard something really funny earlier that I'd like to address. That first lady, with the burning desire to drink, said she wanted to drink, but she didn't want the consequences and whatnot? That's friggin' hilarious!
If there were a way to drink without consequences this whole damn room would be empty.”
(loud laughter)
“We'd be meeting at the bar, and I'd be buying! Basically, in here we are just trying to get one thought in our heads... we went to any lengths to get our drink and drug... now, we have to go to any lengths to keep ourselves sober. So, in both cases, it's all about priorities. Thanks for letting me share.”
“Thanks for sharing,” the room echoes, but I pray I'll remember what I said. I beg God, It, Universe, just let me keep it. I need to know it. At 25 years sober, I have it all together on the outside. But inside... I'm already drunk.
I flinch when I hear the familiar sound of his cough, the clearing of phlegm from his throat in the back of the room. I scan the other faces in the huge clubhouse. Did they see me flinch? 25 solid years, did they hear the doubt in my voice? Is my cover blown?
As we say the prayer, I close my eyes. If I cry a little now, they'll think the moment touched me. Prayer is a good disguise. God is the best formed mask I've ever known. Women like me wear a plastic grin and grieve in hidden jig-saw pieces. It's the only way to let the pressure out without exploding. Tiny bit here, crumb there, no one will add it all up...
I wipe the tears, shake my hair back, and laugh, part of the act, part of the disguise. Clap my hands, and shout excitedly, “Great meeting! You guys get to my heart every time!” Then I grab a cup of coffee, drop fifty cents in the cup, and pretend to obliviously empty the ashtrays. Shaking hands, nodding, insert smile, insert small talk. Pretend I don't feel his eyes boring a hole through me. Pretend to be surprised that he arrived early, moral support? Spy? Assassin?
I grab him into my arms, quick kiss on the cheek. Grab his hand in mine, joking, laughing excitedly, trying to stall. He leads me away to our chariot, greeting each member, boasting about the difference I make. We wave good-bye. Happy shouts to our friends. Blissful couple married 28 years.
He says as we round the corner, “I said you could go to the meeting. I never said you could talk.”
I loose my bladder in the front of the new Nissan. That'll cost me dearly. Exit stage... rites. ***
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