Walking the Dog (6 page)

HALFWAY HOUSE

Upon my release, I lived in a halfway house off First Street. It was near the projects and the river. The architecture was like a 1960s ghetto elementary school transformed into an apartment building. The floors were chipped wood and old tile. There was a common dining room that gave off that grimy atmosphere of a school cafeteria that wasn't funded anymore. I had a roommate, Seña Ramos, whom I could tolerate. The room wasn't huge, but we didn't crash into each other. I liked that the ceiling was high and we actually had a regular rectangular window. I could see identical, ugly brown housing projects and hints of the FDR. I knew the river, and it ached me with its brown emptiness or comforted me when there were freighters. Seña Ramos was Latina and Catholic and into Santeria, that mystical magical shit. And she had erected a tin altar with magazine shots of Jesus glued to cardboard and Virgin Mary plastic statues wearing costume jewelry. She had about twenty “Santos,” like Barbie dolls in biblical outfits. I worried the candles and incense would burn the place down. And I was exhausted because her strange chanting at night triggered nightmares of incidents I didn't even know were in my brain. But there were advantages, too. Every week Seña scrubbed the whole place with this special soap one of her fellow worshippers
got in Hartford. It was supposed to keep devils away. To me it smelled like plain old Ajax or Clorox—but what the hell, we had the cleanest place in the facility.

Seña had been there a year longer than me so she got overnight and weekend passes to see her kids and parents. She used to be the head of a lesbian gang in the South Bronx, and they managed to do a lot of damage to other gangs of the same type. I think she shot at a bunch of preteens in her old life and carried heroin around the city for a Latino don. She also managed to have three kids in the midst of that. It's hard for me to imagine a five-foot Latina with a Tony Orlando haircut, black jeans, spikes, and pierced everything walking around with a baby sticking out of her totally boy-figure six pack. But what do I know? She'd been in and out of jail since she was ten. I knew she'd slashed a few enemies, even lately. She described knives in the way an entitled, knowledgeable gourmet could talk about a special, rare delicacy. She was nice to me though, and brought me back rice, beans, pork intestines—whatever she'd been eating when she went home. Her hair fell in long curls, and she had dark eyes. We stayed up nights exchanging prison stories, though hers were very different than mine since she had been a member of her version of the Royals at a prison on the border of Pennsylvania. She talked to me about the boyfriends she was accumulating in her transformative, straight life. Most beat her, and she'd scratch back with her long, squared purple fingernails. (She had a job as a cleaning lady at a beauty salon and got discounted manicures.) This was freedom.

I had a 10:00 p.m. curfew and orders to check in with Ramone or Francine, the guards, anytime I went anywhere, even if it was just to work. I went to my parole officer once a week, Joe Kasakowski. He was a police officer and a “counselor.” I don't know how he got the job since he didn't seem
like the social-work type to me. In fact, that's why I liked him. Maybe next to Tina and the dogs, he's what you might call a friend. He looked like a retired cop with a red-and-gray crew cut, strong upper body, and beer belly, but he wore Kmart blue jeans with old sneakers and his shirt collar always stayed open despite his tie. At first he was uncomfortable with me, but last visit he offered me an orange Tic Tac.

“Bad news about the kid,” he said.

“Yeah, well, I expected it.”

“But Harry said it got pretty rough.”

“Rough? What's rough at this point?”

“Listen, big shot. Moms want their kids. It's biological, right? But you can't go near yours. Don't be thinking about revenge or popping something to ease the pain. You going to meetings?”

“No.”

“It's a condition under your parole. Don't fuck with me, Carleen.”

“I hardly have time, Joe, and I'm not the ‘Hi group, I'm Carleen and I'm a narcotic ax murderer' type.”

“Who'd you kill with an ax?” Joe smiled. His teeth were small and surprisingly white.

“No one yet,” I shrugged. I was down, no doubt about it.

“Yeah, well, go to the meetings. They're not the worst things in the world. And I got those weekly forms with the boxes I gotta check. It looks better.”

“At least I don't lie,” I offered.

“That's the truth about you,” Joe said. “How's the job?”

“Saving my sanity.”

“I wish Doreen didn't have that fucking cat. It gives me hives and I want a chow chow.”

“Why a chow?” I asked.

“They look like lions and have black tongues,” Joe explained.

“They can be vicious if not trained right,” I said.

“Same as you,” Joe nodded at me.

“I'm mellowing,” I said. “Life's not much to fight for these days.”

“You taking your meds?” Joe asked.

“Like a trooper.”

Joe put on his cop voice. “That's a no-compromise issue.”

“I know that, Joe. I'm not deluded. I'm aware of what could happen without them.”

“You're a good girl, Carleen,” Joe said. “As crazy as they come, but good. Me and Harry think you got a raw deal—you know that. Every step along the way. But neither of us can help you if you screw up.”

“My boss is a junkie,” I said. “That's hard.”

“I'm aware of that,” Joe said. “But if we bust him, there's a whole thing behind the scenes that's gonna go down. They'll blame you. Anyways, it's a job.”

“Drugs are around me all the time,” I reminded him.

“Life is around you all the time, kid.”

“How profound.”

“Fuck you.” Joe smiled.

I got up and shook hands. Joe blushed.

“You know, Carleen. I've wanted to ask you this from the get-go . . . ”

“Shoot,” I said, praying to God he wasn't going to hit on me.

He was already uncomfortable. “You could've bought yourself out of this shit parole. I mean, expensive shrink, ankle bracelets at home uptown. Maybe find some classier job. Why're you playin' the low-class routine?” His whole head turned beet red. “That was a joke.” He coughed.

“You don't get it, Joe. This is exactly where I had to end up.
No one's about to give me a thing. And if I hung out with any of my old world, I'd be a pet—a sightseeing tour. I've been on this side longer than the other. I don't want to be anybody's piece of art anymore.”

“Well, someone's looking for you,” Joe teased. I froze.

“Yeah, some business type called here. We're checking him out.”

“I can't imagine who it is,” I replied.

Joe sighed. He only half believed me.

“Well, next week then. Don't self-destruct, Carleen. I'm not sure, but I think you got something worth saving inside. Don't break one rule. And go to those fucking meetings.”

“Yes, your highness,” I answered.

“Maybe you'll draw me a picture sometime,” he joked.

“No, never,” I answered truthfully. “I'll train your chow.”

I paused.

“Listen, Joe,” I looked back. “Write a letter to family court. Tell them you're my parole officer and you think I got screwed.”

Joe shrugged. “As if it could make any difference at this stage.”

A PARTY WITH POOKIE

Ralph and Evan decided they should cook a dinner in honor of my continuing success with Pookie, the poodle shark. They had complimented each other's “gourmet expertise” innumerable times, and insisted they conjure up food for me that would be “healthy and delectable.” I didn't want to go. I desperately didn't want to go.

“Wear a black shift,” Tina told me. “Gay men love moody, mysterious women.” My stomach was tight as a fist when we went to Ann Taylor to purchase the costume. It's hard to clothe women my size. The laundry sisters at Clayton were always cursing me about it. But Tina and I found a black fake-silk garment that was supposed to be floor-length, but came to my calves. I had black flats to replace my sneakers.

Roger and Evan's town house was weird at night. The antique lamps, tables, sofas, and portraits took on faces in the dim light and made me antsy. I was relieved to see Pookie, who walked calmly to me and sat—as I had taught her—and then bounded, leapt, and licked me all over when I gave her a treat. We're working on calmer reactions.

Dinner was unbearable. The table was set with an old cloth like from
Arsenic and Old Lace
. The china had ugly purple intertwining flowers painted on it. There was actually a candelabra,
and the thing that really scared me was that there were forks and spoons of different sizes laid out next to each other, which meant there'd be a bunch of unrecognizable courses. I sweat with anxiety. Evan was in the large kitchen singing while he cooked and this creeped me out, too. I sat on one of the velvet sofas and Pookie lay at my feet. Ralph was dressed in a T-shirt and creased navy jeans. His sneakers were brand-new white.

“You look ravishing, Carleen,” he said. “Like the Russian poetess Anna Akhmatova. May I offer you a drink?”

Yes, a bottle of bourbon.

“No,” I replied. At that time I only communicated with humans using three or four words at a time. Unless I was working or explaining a technique, I preferred monosyllables. To frame coherent sentences outside of the halfway house that didn't have to do with dog training was excruciating.

“Come look, Evan. She's stunning,” Ralph said. Evan peeked his head out of the sour-smelling kitchen.

“She could've danced with Nureyev,” he sang.

My hands were ice. I couldn't feel my feet. Pookie sensed my dread and put her head on my lap. I knew I was never going to make it to that table. I was a cardboard character in Clue. And, for such a seasoned liar, I couldn't figure out how to escape.

“Guys,” I called out. “Guys.”

They lined up happily in front of me like two prep school boys.

“You went to so much trouble”—I was cracking with nerves—“but I can't do this. Too soon. Too soon.”

“Oh, darling,” Evan said empathetically. “Shall I just grill you some chicken? We can eat our French repast tomorrow.”

“No problem,” said Ralph. “We live for leftovers.”

“I have to go,” I said. “I'm so sorry. This is too soon.”

“Phobias,” Evan said quietly. “You must have a truckload after being locked up all that time.”

“Go,” Ralph said, helping me up somewhat clumsily. “Go—but do have McDonald's or something. Eat!”

I stopped at their carved wooden door, which was now swirling like a pool in the spa. I turned to them. They didn't seem angry, but I had to ask.

“Will you still let me work with Pookie?” I asked.

“Oh, darling,” said Ralph. He went to hug me, and I backed up against the door. “We've put you in our will. You're Pookie's guardian. Now go. We'll try again in six months and eat in the kitchen.” I tore the hell out of there not even stopping to pet my student.

ANOTHER LETTER TO MADAME BATYA

Dear Batya Shulamit,

I don't know if Leonard will give you this letter. I don't know if I should describe every bit and detail of all my crimes and swear I'm trying to make up for them, or the opposite—never mention what happened long ago so you can look at me with a beginner's mind. I don't know what you know or what you don't know. I don't know what your room looks like or what posters you have hanging up. Do you take piano lessons or play soccer? Do you even have a favorite color? Are you anything like me at all? Do you dance in your room? Maybe we could try again. Maybe you can meet me in Battery Park when I'm walking Snuzzle. Snuzzle is really amazing. He's a rescue dog. Sloppy, silly, but that's a disguise. Like a wise Fellini clown. I think he's got shepherd and pug and Portuguese water dog in him. He's not too big so he's not scary. He could be compared to a Dr. Seuss character. The thing about Snuzzle is that he has a way of learning bizarre tricks. I mean, he shakes hands and all that, but he high fives too. And he break-dances. He rolls around on his back and freezes in a
pose. Also, when you say pow! he falls down dead. And the best of all is that if you're sitting, he jumps on your lap and crosses his legs exactly like you do and talks. He doesn't say words, but he really imitates human cadence. His parents, a math teacher named Phil and a woman who manages a bunch of gyms, Linda, want me to take him on David Letterman. Their ambitions are useless. Snuzzles only does his tricks for me, and, according to the rules of my parole, I'm not allowed to make any public appearances. So as a part of my community service, another rule of my parole, I take him to children's wards at hospitals and old-age homes. He's always a hit. He stands on his hind legs and claps for himself. His owners think I'm going to steal him so they've hired a limousine to take us around with a guard as a driver. Snuzzles passes out with his head on my lap and snores like your father used to do. Imagine a bunch of hippopotamuses bathing in an African river. They sound just like that. You should buy this LP of wild animal sounds that a composer recorded in Kenya and Botswana. I used to love to paint to it.

“Shit,” I said out loud. “This is lame.” But I signed it anyway.

With love
,

Carleen Kepper

I shoved the letter in an envelope and put a stamp on it. I walked by a mailbox and dropped it in.

“Fuck you, Leonard,” I mumbled.

A few days later I was in my room trying to get interested in reading again. I was on the third page and couldn't
even remember the name of the book. My cell phone rang and I picked it up, hoping it was Hubb or a new client. But it was Harry.

“I got a call from Leonard's lawyer,” he said. I went tense in my throat. Maybe there's a change.

“He says Leonard insists you stop sending letters or he's going to consider it harassment.”

I didn't answer.

“He'll call your parole officer and then put in a formal complaint with the DA.”

I hung up the phone. What the hell? Maybe I should just kill Leonard. I thought of spending the rest of my life at Clayton and found the option not so bad. But I had to hammer it into my head that hardly any judges picked homes for criminals on the basis of what would be convenient for them. It could've been Powell or worse. I tried to understand Leonard's cruelty. It was his idea to get married. Years later he thought I conned him into making a baby so I'd have an easier sentence. Not true. I knew a lot about cruelty. The cruelty of the games of gangs against newbies. The cruelty of initiation. Of rape. Of wrecking property. Tearing down a person's pride piece by piece. I even knew the cruelty of murdering innocent people. But Leonard was beyond me. No one gains anything by making me crazier than I already am.