My skin, pale from lack of sun, was getting red and splotchy, so I turned off the shower now and stepped out, taking my time as I toweled dry, savoring even this moment: a decent towel, peace and quiet, a feeling of what it might be like once I had full parole and a place of my own. I thought about what to do that day. I had to start looking for work soon—that’s where most of the other parolees were, the house was empty—and there were some programs in the community I needed to attend. But for now I thought I might go to the beach, or maybe a coffee shop.
I’d found one on my last UTA, had stood in line and stared at the people ordering their lattes, mochas, and cappuccinos with such ease while I studied the chalkboard and all its offerings in a panic. I settled on a black coffee, only to be thrown again when the clerk asked which size: tall, grande, venti. I muttered, “Large,” but then, feeling trapped by a man standing too close behind me, pushed my way out of the line, stumbled to the bathroom, and hid in a stall until my heart rate settled down. I left without getting my coffee. Today I wanted to try again, wanted to order one of the drinks with the whipped cream on top.
Back in my room, I walked around, still in my towel, and put away my things. The rooms were just large enough for two single beds, with bedding in a pale blue and beige checked pattern that looked like it had been washed a thousand times, and two chests of drawers. In a corner of the room there were lockers for our personal stuff. My new roommate was out, probably working. We hadn’t met yet and I was nervous—a bad roommate could make your life hell. I tried to focus on the goal: one more year and I could apply for full parole. I just had to stay out of trouble.
*
I had pulled on a pair of jeans and was standing in my prison-issue sports bra—I was going to have to go shopping for clothes soon—when my door was flung open. Instinctively, I grabbed one of my shoes from the floor in case I needed a weapon. A woman came rushing into the room, heading toward the dresser on the other side. She looked about my age but was probably a few years younger. Bleach-blond hair, too much makeup, scarred skin, like she’d been a druggie. She glanced at me, her eyes surprised, then started frantically searching through her top drawer. She kept looking back at the open doorway, saying, “Shit, shit, shit.”
“Are you okay?” I said.
She glanced at me again and looked like she was about to say something, then I heard heavy footsteps in the hall outside our room. The woman froze, her hand still in the drawer. We both turned toward the door.
A large woman was standing in the hallway, her face angry and mean. Wide-shouldered, with huge breasts that hung low under her black T-shirt, salt-and-pepper hair in a crew cut, a jagged pale pink scar running down the side of her head, almost to her ear. She was wearing men’s jeans with a wallet chain, and tattoos covered most of her throat, forming a collar. My body tense, I studied the tattoos up and down her meaty arms—prison style. Was she from Rockland?
One of the tattoos was a name, HELEN, with a knife through the H and a rose wrapped around the handle. Her eyes flicked to me. Now I remembered. Helen Rosanboch. She’d been at Rockland last year, but we’d been housed in different cell blocks, so we hadn’t had much contact. She had a violent reputation, and I’d heard she was a doper. But she got along well with the guards, knew how to play the game, and had friends on the inside. I didn’t know why Helen was at my door, but it couldn’t be for anything good. I gripped the shoe tighter.
“Where’s my fucking money?” she said to the blond woman.
So that was it. A beef over a bad debt.
“I’ve got some—and I’ll get the rest by the end of the week.” The woman’s voice was scared, her body almost cringing into the corner.
Helen took a few steps into the room. “We had a deal, Angie.” Helen glanced at me again. This time it was a challenge, daring me to interfere.
I turned back to my suitcase, but I could still see them both from the corner of my eye. I dropped the shoe onto the bed, where I could reach it. I was worried about a fight starting in our room. It was the last thing I needed.
Angie said, “I’ll get it—real soon, okay?” She grabbed a sock from the drawer, pulled out a handful of crumpled bills.
“You’ve been holding out on me?” Helen came all the way into the room, snatched the money from Angie’s hands, and started unfolding the bills. She mouthed the numbers as she counted, then tucked them into her bra.
“No! I was just waiting until I had it all. Can you give me a break, Helen? Just a few more days. You know my kids—”
“I don’t give a fuck about your kids. I’ve got kids too. What about my fucking kids, Angie?” Helen’s voice was enraged, her face beet-red. She gave Angie a shove. She fell against the side of the dresser, slid down to the floor with a thump. Helen leaned over her. “You think you can play me like that?”
Angie was cowering, one arm over her face. “I’m not. I swear!”
I turned back toward them, my pulse racing. Should I do something?
“I told you—you don’t pay me back on time, I’ll fuck you up.” Helen smacked Angie hard in the face, bouncing the back of Angie’s head against the side of the dresser with a hard crack. Angie let out a gasp.