My Fall and Rise Ch. 07

Iced Coffee and Blueberries

Wake call came at 4:30 on my 545th day in prison, just as it had on all the others. Today was different though. I had been instructed to report to Processing at 8:00, and was in administrative limbo until then. My other cellmates shuffled off to the showers, but Alicia lingered. She watched me as I began packing up my state issued items.

"So, how's it feel?" she asked.

"I don't know. Kind of like it's not real yet, I guess."

"Fuck. I've got at least three more years before I am even eligible to apply."

I wanted to hug her, but felt sure she'd push me away.

"Well, who knows?" I shrugged. "Maybe I'll see you on the outside sometime."

"Bitch, if I see you out there, I will knock you on your ass. Stay the fuck away from bitches like me. Go fucking be somebody, and don't fucking come back here."

"I won't."

She turned to leave.

"Alicia."

She looked back at me.

"Page 260."

"What?"

"Tell the new fish to start reading The Shining on page 260."

She crooked her finger at me. "Redrum, bitch."

I returned the gesture. "Redrum, babe."

I entered the shower room just as the last women were leaving it. I had never been in there alone before. I felt like a ghost. I returned to my cell to get dressed and had to wait for the on duty officer to buzz me in.

"I thought you were gone," she called from the security station.

"Eight o'clock," I called back.

"How come you didn't go to chow?" she asked.

"I'm going in a few minutes."

"No, you aren't. You go with the unit or you don't go." They didn't feed on my first day and they didn't feed me on my last.

With freedom just hours away, I had nothing to do but sit in the common room and wait. I tried to watch some television, but nothing held my attention. All I could thing of was the clock.

Finally, it was time to report to Processing. I lugged my state issue to the security station, and the CO escorted me to the Administrative area.

"You weren't a model prisoner," she said, as she took me into the processing room, "But you weren't bad. Stay off the dope and don't come back."

I reported to the desk and they told me to take a seat. I sat there until almost ten o'clock.

Finally, they called me up. There was some paperwork to take care of, and then they brought out the storage box containing my property. I handed over my state issue, and they went through it, counting every sock and pair of panties. When they checked off my toothbrush and comb I asked them, "You don't reuse that stuff, do you?", but they just ignored me. When they had finished the inventory, an officer took me into a dressing room. I stripped down and she searched me. I don't know what they thought I might be smuggling out, but protocol is protocol.

She added the clothes I had taken off to the inventory, and told me to get dressed. I opened the storage box and realized that the clothing inside was what I had worn in on an icy day in February. It was now the middle of August. I looked at the officer. "Hey, uh, how hot is it out today?"

"About ninety," she shrugged.

I dressed in my jeans and t-shirt, my heavy wool socks and my LL Bean snow boots. I could take off the boots and socks once I was in the car, at least. But I also had my parka and a heavy flannel shirt. I draped them over my arm.

"Put 'em on," the officer said.

"It's ninety degrees out!"

"You wore it in, you wear it out."

I wondered about women who gain or lose weight inside, but I didn't say anything more. I was still a prisoner, they might try to mess with my good time and keep me longer. The last thing I wanted to do was piss her off. I put on the shirt and coat.

We went back into the main room, and there were more papers to sign. They told me an officer would come to escort me out. I sat back down and waited another twenty minutes. Finally, a male officer came in.

"Bennett," he barked.

"Here." I stood up and he gestured for me to go with him. He unlocked the door that led to the sally port and we stepped outside into bright sun and sweltering heat. He looked at me and said, "What are you, nuts? Take off that fucking coat."

I took it off as he unlocked the gate. It swung open and I stepped outside.

There was only one car in that part of the parking lot, and my mother was sitting behind the wheel, reading a book. She had been waiting there for almost three hours. I ran to her as she got out of the car. We threw our arms around each other, crying and laughing and kissing. When you have visitors in prison, you are allowed one brief hug at the beginning and at the end of each visit. By force of habit, I started to break off after a few seconds, but she pulled me back and I realized that nobody would ever again tell me how long I could hug my Mama.

The first time she came to visit me, she had brought along a batch of homemade chocolate chip cookies, not understanding that they would not let me have them. She was so mad when the officers confiscated them that she wrote a letter of complaint to the governor. When I opened the passenger door, I saw a brown paper bag on the seat. I picked it up and smelled a fresh batch of cookies. In the cupholder was a big cup of iced coffee. I took a long drink. The ice had melted and it was lukewarm, but it was delicious. There is always a Dunkin Donuts close by in New England, so Mom stopped at the first one we saw and bought me a fresh cold one.

On the drive home she chattered away about all kinds of things that had happened while I was "away". A store had burned down in the next town, one of our neighbors had died. I mostly watched the scenery go by. The world looked so big, I had to fight off vertigo when I looked to the horizon. We stopped for lunch and I ate a huge plate of fried clams and french fries.

I began to feel nervous as we got close to home. I was not looking forward to seeing people. In a small town, everyone knows everyone's business. It would not be easy dealing with everyone knowing mine.

We went straight to Mom's house. Walking through her door filled me with a sense of well being I had not felt in years, even before I went to prison. I was so emotionally and physically drained that I flopped onto the couch and was asleep in minutes. I slept until she woke me for supper. It seemed a surreal experience to sleep in the daytime.

For supper, we ate lasagna and garlic bread and strawberry cheesecake. We were happy to be together again, but saddened that, despite my mother's pleading, my brother refused to join us. He did not want to see me. He still does not.

My mother had kept a list of movies that I missed and after supper, we watched Guardians of the Galaxy. When it was over, we were ready to go to bed. I stood up and faced the door to my old bedroom.

"Mama?"

"Yes, baby?"

"Can I sleep with you tonight?"

"Of course you can, baby."

I fell asleep that night cradled in my mother's arms. For the first time in as long as I could remember, I felt completely at peace.

I woke up in the darkness and looked at the clock. It was 4:30, of course. I slipped out of bed and tiptoed down the hall to my own room. I quietly shut the door behind me and turned on the light. Everything was as I had left it eighteen months earlier, and the sight of it filled me with a strange emotion that was neither sorrow nor joy, but somehow both at once. I walked around the room just touching things. I ran my hand along a row of my books on a shelf. I caressed my tattered childhood teddy bear. I ran my fingers across a glass jar of periwinkle shells I had gathered on the beach and on a framed photo of myself hugging Alfie, our long gone sheepdog. I rested my hand on the top of my cedar jewelry box, then flipped it open. Only a few cheap pieces remained. Everything of value had long since gone to pay for drugs.

My phone and iPod were on my desk. The phone battery was dead, but the iPod still held a charge. I put on the earbuds and pressed play. The first song was Beatles.It was Norwegian Wood.

That had always been one of my favorite songs, but listening to it I remembered singing along to it with Nicky. I nearly shut it off, but then I thought, fuck you Nicky, you can't have my song. This bird has flown. I continued to listen as I laid down on my bed. My own bed. It seemed a wondrous thing. I realized that I had no idea what I was going to do with my day, and the thought was both exhilarating and terrifying. On Monday I would have to report to my parole officer. I would have to look for a job, get my phone turned on, renew my drivers license. But for the next three days, I was completely free. I got up and turned on my old desktop computer. I went to my Facebook page, thinking about who I might get in touch with, perhaps find someone who would like to get together over the weekend.

What I found were denunciations, death threats, admonishments about the folly of drug abuse, suggestions that I kill myself. The few supportive posts I read were mostly from people who were fellow drug users. I logged out. I didn't have friends anymore. I had people who hated me and people who wanted to get high with me. The only person I had in my corner was my mother. I went down to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for her when she woke up.

It was a work day for Mom, so I had the house to myself the rest of the day. It was hard to get used to the idea of being alone. I went outside and strolled around the yard and my mother's little vegetable garden. A storm was coming and the wind was picking up. I stood facing into it and relished the feel of it on my face. I picked a few cherry tomatoes and ate them as the first raindrops fell.

I sat on the screened in porch and watched the rain for a while. It seemed like a beautiful fountain. After a while, I went inside to my bedroom. I opened the closet and flipped through the clothes hanging there. I'd lost a few pounds in prison, but I thought everything would still fit fine. I realized that none of the things I'd had at Nicky's cabin were there, and I wondered what had happened to them. Were they stashed in an evidence locker somewhere?

I looked through my dresser drawers as well. In the bottom drawer I made a wonderful discovery. Underneath my neatly folded winter sweaters was my Hitachi Wand. I plugged it in and switched it on, delighted to hear it's familiar buzz. I tried to remember the last time I had masturbated. It had been weeks.

I slipped out of my clothing and climbed into bed. The storm had chilled the air, and I wrapped myself in a cocoon of blankets. I held the wand between my thighs and switched it on again. It is a common, often fatal, mistake for people just out of prison to return to their drug habits at the level they were accustomed to when they went in. I made a similar mistake with the vibrator. I had started with it snug up against my clit, and the sensation was far more than I could handle. I switched it off, waited a minute, and started against, running it up and down my inner thighs. After a few minutes, I ran it across my vulva and just brushed my clit with it. That sent shivers up my spine. I did it again, slower, and then again, this time stopping and pressing it firmly to me. In less than a minute, I had a shuddering orgasm. I squeezed my thighs tightly together, trapping the wand against me, and came a second time, and a third. I curled around the wand and felt it's vibrations through my whole body. Thunder was crashing overhead and rain coming through the window, but I scarcely noticed as I kept coming, oblivious not just to the storm but to any inner turmoil or concerns. There was no fantasy, no imagined scenario in my mind. There was only glorious sensation. When at last I switched it off, I felt like I was still vibrating for several minutes. "Jesus," I thought, "what's going to happen when I switch it to high?"

Over the next few weeks, as I struggled to adjust to the outside world and tried to put together at least an approximation of a normal life, I was apprehensive about dating or entering into any sort of social life at all. The Hitachi helped me through that time, providing a release that was as emotional as it was physical. I thought I was discrete about using it, until one day when my mother asked me when I was going to start getting out of the house more, and stop spending so much time "dating my Japanese boyfriend."

I tried to find work, but jobs were scarce even for people without criminal records and tainted reputations. I remembered how, after my father left, my mother would take even the most menial employment to put food on our table, and I felt ashamed that I was not doing the same. So, when even McDonalds would not hire me, I swallowed my pride, got up before dawn and joined the lineup of people outside a local store who waited each morning for the trucks to come and pick up anyone willing to work on the blueberry barrens.

Raking blueberries is backbreaking work. The berries grow close to the ground, usually on rocky hillsides where the only way to harvest them is to bend down and scoop them up with a short two handled rake. By the end of the first day I could barely straighten my back. Most of the other rakers were migrant workers, Mexicans or Haitians. I realized that all my life, these people had been coming into the area every year to work, and I had never noticed them. Some stayed in motels, but many slept in their cars or set up camp in the woods. I would spend the night in my comfortable bed.

Some of the young men could fill two hundred boxes of berries a day, twenty pound to a box. The pay rate was $2.50 per box. I was pressed to fill fifty boxes, but at least I was bringing in some money. And, while the work was exhausting, I enjoyed being out in the sun and fresh air. Some of the barrens we raked were on high hilltops, where the view stretched all the way to the ocean.

On my second day, a Mexican man, about thirty years old, approached me as I struggled to fill my first box. He introduced himself as Roberto. He spoke very good English and he showed me how to rake properly, bending my knees and resting my arms on my thighs as I swung the rake to take some of the strain off my shoulders. He was handsome, bronze skinned and well muscled, and I would watch for him in the fields in the following days. He worked hard, but he always seemed to have a moment to offer a drink of cold water to someone or help them haul their boxes to the truck. Several times, he helped me with mine. Now and then, as we raked, our eyes would meet, and he would always smile and wave.

It was unusually hot for late summer, and one day as I climbed off the truck at the drop off area, I saw Roberto going into the store. I followed him in. I got a cold soda out of the case, and saw him paying for a can of beer. When I came out of the store, he was leaning against the wall, drinking it.

"I guess it gets hot like this a lot where you are from," I said to him as I sipped my soda.

He laughed. "Hot is hot, no matter where." He looked at me quizzically. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"Why is a pretty white girl out working in the fields?"

"Well, I couldn't find a job. I have, um, some legal issues."

"Marijuana?" he asked, emphasizing the Spanish pronunciation.

I shook my head. "Cocaina."

He nodded sympathetically. I was finding myself very attracted to him. In the past, I'd have flirted with him and hoped that he would pick up on my interest. But I had changed. I wasn't going to just hope that I would be offered what I wanted.

"You know what," I said, "I'm going to go swimming. You want to come with me?"

He looked at me for a minute, then nodded. "Is there someplace near by?"

"Not too far, and I've got a car. Let's go."

"Wait for a minute," he said. He went back into the store and came back with a couple more cans of beer.

Not far from my mother's house there is a road that dead ends at a washed out bridge. From the bridge a well worn path winds a short way through the trees to the edge of the river and a beautiful waterfall. The locals like to keep it a secret from the tourists and the summer folks. But everyone who grew up in the area knew it as a place for romantic adventures.

I led Roberto down to the falls. He stared at it in amazement. Under a green canopy of trees, the water cascaded a dozen feet into an upper pool that was about thirty feet in diameter, then divided into several smaller falls that zigzagged another ten feet down the slope in a series of streams and smaller pools.

We kicked off our shoes and sat down on the rocky ledge and dangled our feet in the cold water. We drank the beers and Roberto told me a little about life as a migrant worker, about how they had worked their way up the coast all summer, starting with picking strawberries in Florida and following the crops north. In another day or two they would be moving down east to harvest the last of the blueberries, then north for the late potato crop before they returned home for the winter.

I swallowed the last of my beer and stood up. Roberto looked up at me as I pulled my t-shirt over my head. I undid my cutoffs and let them drop to the ground. He began to slide his hand up the inside of my leg, but I turned and dived into the upper pool. When I surfaced, he was rapidly tearing his own clothes off. I swam to the opposite side of the pool, took off my bra and panties, and tossed them up on the rocks.

Roberto slipped into the water and began to dog paddle towards me. We met in the middle of the pool, embraced and kissed.

"It is so cold!" he chattered.

"I can warm you up," I laughed, reaching down and squeezing his shrunken cock. We swam together over to the falling water. The pool was shallower there. When I stood up on the rocks, the water came halfway up my thighs. I raised my face, and let the cascade wash over me as Roberto knelt before me, holding my hips and kissing my belly and my breasts.

He pulled me down to his lap. His cock was not soft now, and it slipped easily inside me. He pushed off the rock and we floated into the pool, joined together. He held me around the waist and began bouncing his feet off the bottom, thrusting into me on each upward bounce. We spun across the pool, bobbing up and down until he lost his balance and we tumbled over into the water.

I swam to the downstream side of the pool and he followed me. I had been here many times, and I found the place I was looking for, where the rocks formed a smooth slide into one of the small lower pools. I slipped down it, and Roberto came right behind me, sliding into my arms. We stood there kissing in the waist deep water.

"This is a magic place," Roberto said, "Thank you for bringing me here."

I ran my hands over his broad shoulders and firm biceps and kissed his chest. He took hold of me and turned me around. He gently pushed me down over a smooth round rock. I hugged it's cool surface and laid my face down on it as he entered me from behind. He fucked me with long, slow strokes as I watched the water swirl in eddies below me. Roberto was in no hurry to finish. This was not sex as I was used to it. There was no desperate race to climax, it felt luxurious as I savored every delicious stroke of his cock.

As Roberto began to increase the intensity of his thrusts, I had a thought that momentarily startled me. This felt different, because it was different. I had never had sex with a man when I wasn't high on drugs. The two things had always been entwined for me. But this felt so good, this sensual connection between two people that needed no enhancement, that I felt a sense of delighted surprise.

I wanted to look at Roberto while he fucked me. I wanted eye contact, human connection. I pushed myself up and turned around. I wrapped my legs around his waist. He sat down in the water and I sat on his lap. I leaned back and felt the water trickling onto my shoulders and down my back as he guided his cock back inside me. I rode up and down on him, slowly building towards a climax. When he pulled my head down and kissed me, my orgasm swept over me. A moment later, he threw his head back and pressed hard into me, then fell back into the water with a satisfied moan.