Things I can’t Explain (13 page)

I think it was the pee stain on the front of Ferg-a-felon's Brooks Brothers khakis that ultimately earned the judge's pity. In order to sentence my brother for his crimes and protect him from the Russian Mafia, the judge sent him to Coxsackie, instead of those plush Club Fed prisons like Lompoc or Butner. It wasn't that Judge Richards was worried about Ferg breaking
out
; on the contrary, he was convinced the grudge-holding Mafiya Razboyniki would make every conceivable effort to break
in
. And, ya know … kill Ferg in his sleep. Something I've thought about every day of my life.

The day they sent my brother up the river was crazy. My mother assembled a little care package of tofu snacks to take, as if he were going to summer camp instead of being incarcerated for the better part of his young adult life.

Through it all, Dad was Ferguson's biggest supporter. He still believed Ferguson was innocent. Dad and I stood in the courtroom like statues, watching the bailiff cuff my brother and take him away.

“He'll be okay,” Dad said, trying to convince himself.

“Sure, he's Ferguson,” I told Dad, trying to cheer him up, “as in ‘the devil,' ‘Beelzebub,' ‘force of evil.' The inmates will probably elect him class president or something.”

“Hope so, Sport,” Dad whispered. “He's still a redheaded little boy to me.” I could see he was tearing up. I also vividly remember the aforementioned Veracruz standing behind us, sobbing her head off, crying out that she'd wait for Ferguson forever. I found that touching, until the following week when she appeared on the cover of
People
magazine cuddling the lead singer of the latest boy band, Side Street Boyz, showing off her new six-carat engagement ring.

That was the last time I'd seen my little brother. Eighteen months ago.

As I burst through the main lobby of the Nuzegeek building into the warm afternoon air, I knew exactly what I needed to do.

 

CHAPTER
13

After a change of clothes and a pit stop at the Korean deli for some Reese's peanut butter cups, I pick up the nearest Zipcar and head upstate. The only thing harder than getting out of the Coxsackie Correctional Facility is getting into it—for visitors, anyway.

At the gates, my chartreuse rental is thoroughly searched by uniformed guards. Once I'm through the front door, I hand over my clutch to a hefty woman who rifles through it as though it's done something to offend her. When she's finished manhandling my vintage Gucci wallet and my Apocalips lipstick (correction: Jody's lipstick), she flings the purse back at me and points to the plastic grocery bag I'm holding.

“Whatcha got in there?”

A cake with a file in it. Duh.
Fortunately, I don't say that.

“Peanut butter cups. For my brother. They're his favorite.”

With teeny-tiny files in them
, I think, but I don't say that either. I open the bag. She pokes her nose in, then nods and motions toward the metal detector. Thankfully my cloisonné bangles don't set off any sirens. I silently vow that if anyone so much as utters the words
cavity search
, I'm leaving. There are some things I simply won't do for my brother.

Before I know it, another stern-faced guard (male this time) is leading me to the visitation room. It's a large open space, eerily reminiscent of a high school cafeteria, with tables and chairs set up at polite distances from each other. I sit at an empty table near the window (which is embedded with heavy-duty chicken wire) and wait.

This probably goes without saying, but I really don't like prison.

It smells weird, for one thing. Nobody smiles, for another. The floors squeak under my shoes and there's a nearly palpable sense that somewhere there's a guillotine about to drop. And why the hell aren't there any curtains? Curtains would totally soften this place up.

Okay, I'm rambling. But it's just because I'm nervous and I'm pretty mad at Fergwad that I even have to be here. But mostly nervous, bordering on terrified because even if I've done nothing wrong, I always feel slightly guilty when I'm in places like police stations, customs lines, even the DMV, not to mention prison.

There's no getting around the fact that there are people in this building who have committed unspeakable acts. Some judge in a black robe banged his or her gavel and declared them guilty. While I wait in this nerve-deadening place for my little brother, I wonder what he'll be like now. Weepy? Broken? Humble? Can I really be angry with him when his situation is so dire?

I try to control my nerves by thinking how transgressions, legal and moral and even my anger at Ferguson, exist on a spectrum ranging from little guilty pleasures to broken commandments.

For some reason those hair color sample charts they show you down at Sally Hershberger's salon come to mind and I calm myself by making a mental mash-up of guilt versus hair color choices.

I have the irresistible urge to cut my bangs while I'm waiting, but the sharpest thing in my pocketbook is an eyeliner brush. Then maybe I'm guilty of not taking this prison thing seriously enough.

That reminds me: My split ends could totally use a trim. I'm jonesing to dial up Bumble and Bumble, but my pocketbook won't let me. Maybe someday after I pay the Con Ed bill. For now I'll just pick at them, part of my unfortunate love affair with pulling apart my split ends when I'm stressed. Not a full-blown case of trich (short for trichotillomania) but enough for me to know I've got to stop. Piper and Jody do the same thing. Sometimes when we're together we'll all be chatting away; then we'll stop talking and silently pick at our hair.

A plaintive wail shatters my inner monologue. What the eff was that? I'm simply not prepared for this hard-knock prison life. Even as a visitor my nerves are totally on edge. Don't ask why, but it reminds me of the time Jody pierced her own belly button at my house without warning me.

Across the room, I see this enormous guy with the words
DEATH SQUAD
tattooed across his knuckles weeping like a baby holding what I imagine are divorce papers. I assume that's his wife, sitting on the other side of the table with her arms crossed, looking like she doesn't care. I'm riveted by this drama until I hear a familiar voice.

“Yo, C.”

I turn to see my brother. At least, I
think
it's my brother. He's shackled at the wrists and ankles, being escorted by two guards, each of whom outweighs him by, like, a zillion pounds.

As much as I want to throttle him myself, I'm taken aback.

They know his crime was of the paper variety, don't they? Do they honestly think my little brother is physically dangerous?

Whoa. Wait. Is that a do-rag he's wearing?

He smiles at me and that's when I see the gold cap on his front tooth.

They sit him down in the chair across from mine. Ferguson's eyes dart sideways, determining whether the coast is clear, then he quickly slips something to one of the burly guards.

I recognize the item as one of Mom's tofu cookies. Is that what actually passes for a bribe around here? That wouldn't have even worked at home in high school. Man, this place is more depressing than I thought.

He leans across the table and smiles.

“Wuz up, my sis-tuh,” he croons pretty loud considering I'm sitting twelve inches in front of him. Then he lowers his voice to a whisper. “Yo, don't mind the chains. They're my fix so I don't come across like Snow White, if you dig what I'm diggin'. Makes them homies think I'm a badass. They keeps their distance that way—well, most of the time anyway.”

I grin. That's Ferg-face. Always thinking.

Now he sort of lounges back in his chair, hips forward, shoulders slanted, head tilted and bobbing as he purses and unpurses his lips.

“Ferguson, what's with the new … uh … prison demeanor?”

“Just fittin' in, aight?”

It's jarring, to say the least. As a kid, the closest Ferg ever came to joining a gang was when he signed up for Beaver Patrol at summer camp.

Across the room, the soon-to-be ex-wife stands up, snaps her fingers, and tells the Death Squad guy that he better be able to pay his damn alimony. Then she flips him off and baby-steps a getaway across the linoleum on her six-inch stilettos.

Poor Death Squad is sobbing as the guards help him up from his chair. He's shackled, too, but something tells me it's not the result of a cookie barter. As he shuffles past, he stops crying long enough to check me out.

“Ferg, man. This fine piece o' ass yo' baby mama?”

Eww.

“Nah, bro. She be my sister.”

The big guy manages a nod and gives me a wink. “Yo. Nice.”

For the life of me I have no idea how to respond. The only thing that comes to mind is “Word to ya muthah,” but that summons up images of white rappers in parachute pants and I really don't want to embarrass myself. Why I care about looking cool to a member of the Death Squad is beyond me, but there it is.

The guards drag him off. Ferguson and I are alone. Despite my rage, I can't help feeling bad for the annoying ginger.

“I'm sorry I didn't come sooner,” I say.

“No worries.”

“Are you okay? I mean, is this really as depressing as it seems? And what happened to your tooth?”

“Nah, da tooth is fo show.” Ferguson pulls off the gold veneer to show it's removable. “It is what it is, yo. Besides, I got me a good hustle.”

“I'm not exactly fluent in prison jive,” I remind him. “You're going to have to translate.”

Ferguson leans in. “I'm makin' bank in here, yo.” Ferguson scans the room then adds in a whisper, “I started up a niche dating service. I help the incarcerated lovelorn find eligible mates on the outside. You'd be surprised how many gay white dudes with an Evangelical twist have trouble hooking up. Totally underserved.”

“That's great,” I say, trying to be positive despite the fact that I am totally appalled. Ferguson sure is a go-getter, even here.

He nods and crosses his hand over his chest in a half-wave, half-pumping motion, rapper sign language for “Word,” I believe.

“So whachoo doin' here?” he asks, his voice loud again for show, I assume. “E'rething cool at home or what?”

“It's been better,” I admit. “You know, Mom and Dad are still separated, and Dad still needs a job. I saw them last week. Dad's loopy, totally depressed.”

“Tell Pops it's all good,” says Ferguson. “Soon as I get sprung I gawn' set him up in bid'niss.”

“Bid'niss?”

“You remembers Dad's Fryfel Tower in the shape of a french fry container and all his whacked buildings?”

I shake my head, remembering the pickle-shaped pickle factory he built for Glosen's Pickles and his final and most bizarre architectural offering: an enormous round, white building for the Peoria Ping-Pong Ball Factory, which he designed to be built entirely out of Ping-Pong balls.