From the Chrysalis (17 page)

Chapter 11

Smashing Bars, Rattling

Windows, and then Silence

About 600 of the 723 prisoners in Maitland Penitentiary went on a rampage last night, smashing windows, rattling bars, breaking furniture. Then there was silence. The revolt has been termed “spur of the moment”. It is not known what the inmates hope to gain, although there have been several interim demands for food, medication and security. Six guards who reported for duty at 9 am yesterday have not been heard from for several hours. Family members fear the worst.

– Maitland Spectator
, Sept. 3, 1971, p.1.

Maitland Penitentiary, September 4, 1971:
 

Tap, tap,
Dace heard. Somebody was playing taps on the pipes in his tier.
 

He had fallen asleep on the floor, his cheek was cold, his neck stiff. He edged closer to the hall light to check his watch. Jesus, it was 3:00 a.m., his least favourite hour.
 

Metal on metal.
Only guards could clang like that. Nobody else had the tools … or at least nobody else
should
have the tools.

The tapping got louder. Somebody was coming down the hall.
 

“Let’s get Dace. He’s a boxer, ain’t he?” a familiar voice said. The next thing Dace knew, a host of ghostlike men had materialized outside his cell. He jumped to his feet and grabbed the bars. He wasn’t going to let them open his door. If they got in …

It made no sense. True, the goon squad preferred to make their visits at this hour, but Dace had done nothing to precipitate such an action. The fact that these guys were dressed in sheets and wearing baklavas should have tipped him off, but it didn’t. It was late and he was tired. It was only when the lead guy opened his mouth that he realized who his visitors were.
 

“Are you with us, D’Arcy Devereux?” Sandy McAllister asked.

No
, Dace thought.

Sandy held up a flaming torch. “Pull yourself together, man!” he said, prompting the rest of his friends to laugh. “It’s a bingo,” he added, seeing the look of confusion on Dace’s face.

Well
, Dace thought,
all the more reason not to let you in.
“A bingo?” he stalled. “A riot?”

“Sure. We got some mother fuckin’ guards and we got some keys!” one of Sandy’s friends practically sang. “And if that don’t work, look at Charlie! He’s got a crowbar, man. He tore the fucking bars off our drums. We’re busting the rest of the solids out now. You’re one of us, right?”

That’s right,
Dace thought.
I’m solid. Too solid to get mixed up with the likes of you.
But then Charlie the Crowbar said something and Dace caught a whiff of male heat so strong that the part of him that throve on trouble and excitement was eager as a hard-on.

But he couldn’t just take off with Sandy and his boys. He had way too much to lose. Maybe if he only had a couple of years in, but not now. And their eyes … He didn’t like their eyes. They had probably dipped into the dispensary on their way here. He took a couple more steps back and almost landed in the toilet.
 

Sandy giggled. “Ah, c’mon, man,” he pleaded.

Bile rose in his throat, though he’d eaten supper and extra bread, too. How long did digestion take? Four, maybe five hours? They’d had Shepherd’s Pie yesterday at 4:00 p.m. It had been a little dry around the edges, but not bad, not lead at least. What about breakfast? Who was going to cook that? What had they done with all the pigs? There must have been at least thirty on duty.
 

Fuck,
he thought, slamming his fist into the concrete wall over the toilet. Why was he even thinking about food?
 

Sandy waited a moment before walking away with all the dignity he could muster. His nose stuck up in the air and he made every step an accusation. The rest of his crew trailed their self-appointed leader down the catwalk, almost elegant in their white robes.
 

Dace looked into his toilet and a scream reverberated from a lower tier.
 

From a distance, he heard Charlie the Crowbar say, “Sounds like a problem. What d’you want to do?”

 
He could almost hear Sandy brightening. A man on a mission. “Let’s shut the fucker up,” he suggested.

Great
, Dace thought, upchucking into his sweating toilet bowl.
Now what?

Chapter 12

Golden Grove Unleaving

Margaret, are you grieving

Over Goldengrove unleaving?

Leaves, like the things of man, you

With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?

Ah! as the heart grows older

It will come to such sights colder

By & by, nor spare a sigh

Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;

And yet you wíll weep & know why.

Now no matter, child, the name:

Sorrow’s springs are the same.

Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed

What héart héard of, ghóst guéssed:

It is the blight man was born for,

It is Margaret you mourn for

*[ Hopkins, Gerald Manley, “Spring and Fall,” 1918]

Maitland University, September 4, 1971:

The monarchs weren’t fooled. They headed south in record numbers while summer lapsed into a hazy, golden September, catching the students in residence ill-prepared. Most had left their lighter clothes back in the bedrooms of their parents’ homes where they would claim free storage for years to come. Boxes sat in attic rooms on the farms, in basement dens in the suburbs, in the claustrophobic little worlds the students had yearned to escape ever since puberty had blindsided them, some as early as fifth grade. Parents who had thought they could never relinquish their children to adulthood had been desperate to let go in the end. Anything to avoid the stormy recriminations, the sullen end to their secret dream family lives.
 

September marked the official start of all their New Years. Whole families forfeited the cherished Ontario summer and flung themselves fast forward through fall, into winter.

The students perspired in their calf-length skirts and faded Levis. They strolled across the sprawling green campus lawns, pausing under shady canopies of maple trees and limestone arches. The more ambitious boys mapped the locations of their classes, casting their futures into the new school year. Most just hoped to get laid and remain free and unencumbered. And although people said fewer girls were virgins these days, they at least wanted to make one vital connection, to meet one special person, maybe even fall in love.
 

Liza Devereux was no exception. She stopped under a maple tree on the swell of a hill, holding Stuart “Mel” Melville’s hand, and was temporarily magnetized by the look in his eyes.
What if
? she wondered.
 

“Let’s catch our breath here,” he said. “Although I really could go for a drink.”

For a moment she let him pull her closer, feeling a flood of relief as he wrapped around her. Mel was an uncomplicated personality. Nothing like Tony or Dace. Ah, Dace. My cousin with prison eyes, she thought, moving from the safety of her new friend’s arms.

Mel looked at her, a five o’clock shadow glistening on his face. “Too hot?” he inquired, looking slightly appeased when she nodded.
 

It was hot, but she didn’t care. Dublin had fed her mind, but she had been cold there for too long. She wore a grey tweed skirt and a teal blue, short-sleeved jumper today, made in Ireland.
Pullover
, she corrected herself, feeling sweat pool between her breasts. Everything she owned was back in her residence room.
Don’t leave anything here,
Gran had said,
I don’t want any reminders.
She didn’t have that many clothes, but she didn’t mind that.
 

The sun shone through a lattice of golden maple leaves and Liza smiled. She had missed the sun while she’d lived in Dublin. At night when she’d slept, she’d dreamt of wide open fields surrounded by shady green trees and monarch butterflies on milkweed leaves. In her dreams it was never winter in Ontario.

Now that she was back home she dreamed of Ireland and her endless fields of green; she sped on a motorbike with Tony up the Antrim coast, her arms stretched towards the sky; she traced a Celtic swirl with her eyes.
 

Mel sprinted ahead of her, his legs picking up speed as he plunged to the bottom of the hill.
 

Liza was worn out from living in the past. Better to run after Mel and start living in the present. This was her time, she reminded herself. If she couldn’t make a new life here at Maitland University, she never would.
 

She caught up to him at the foot of the hill. “What are you thinking about?”
 

She reached towards him and noticed that when he took her hand, every muscle in her stomach relaxed. His problems were so simple. All he wanted was to get A’s.

“School stuff,” he said. “I have a really heavy course load.”
 

He talked about his chemistry and math courses while her mind drifted to Dace, sweltering in the heat wave in his antediluvian little cell. Some said the penitentiary was air conditioned, but she doubted it. Her newly built student residence wasn’t even air-conditioned, for Christ’s sake. People also said the prisoners had colour television. Lies, all lies. The penitentiary was all about boredom, monotony and sensory deprivation, with no regard for the man it made. She knew that. Just last winter, Dace had sent her a sample of his daily routine and encouraged her to fill in the blanks:

6:00 a.m. Bell rings 20 times. Wake up, be counted, go to showers twice a week.

7:00 a.m. Breakfast [marching in single file]. Typical fare: dry cereal and white toast.

7:30 a.m. Sick Call or Exercise Yard [to pace or use weights under a tin awning]

8:30 a.m. Work [Mon to Fri.] or back to cells

12:00 p.m. Bell rings 20 times. Lunch: bologna or cheese on white bread; canned fruit.

12:30 p.m. Back to cells to be counted [and cop some prison drugs or gamble]

1:00 p.m. Work [Mon to Fri.] or back to cells

5:00 p.m. Bell rings 20 times. Mess Hall for supper: canned beans, stews, spaghetti.

6:00 p.m. Back to cells to be counted [and write letters and read or score brew/drugs]

6:30 p.m. Recreation: watch television or play games [checkers, chess and cribbage]

8-10:00 p.m. Back to cells to be counted [and write letters and read or score brew/drugs]

10:30 p.m. Bell rings 20 times. Lights out

11:00 p.m. Absolute quiet