Vincent Zandri - The remains

March, 2008

Green Haven Prison

Stormville, New York

The guard sergeant stands at the base of a four-tiered iron cell block, the angelic orange-red rays of the early morning sun shining down upon him through the top tier chicken-wire windows.

Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouts, “Joseph! William! Whalen!”

Inside a dark cell, inmate Whalen inhales his final wormy breath inside D-Block. He stands before the vertical bars. So close, the hooked nose on his hairless face and head is nearly pressed against the iron.

“Cry, cry, cry,” he chants quietly to himself. “Cry, cry, cry you naughty kittens.”

An abrupt electric alarm sounds. Metal slams against metal. The noise echoes throughout the concrete and steel prison block. But no one-not inmate or screw-notices it. When the barred door crashes open, the shock reverberates inside Whalen’s chest. It is the sound of freedom.

“Step forward,” shouts the guard sergeant.

There to greet him are two uniformed correction officers. They will escort him along the gangway, down the four tiers to the first floor.

Having descended the metal stairs to a place called ‘between gates,’ Whalen proceeds through a series of opened and closed barred doors, until he comes to Intake/Release.

A female correction officer stands protected inside the barred window of the small brightly lit cubicle.

“Name,” she exclaims, voice detached, but sprinkled with anger.

“Joseph William Whalen,” speaks the inmate, not without a smile that exposes gray-brown teeth.

Bobbing her head in silence, the CO turns and locates the prepackaged materials that sit out atop her metal desk. Setting the plastic bag through the small opening beneath the bars she reads off a neatly typed inventory. “One wallet containing ten dollars cash, thirteen cents in coins. One necktie, one ring of keys, one pocket-sized Holy Bible, one black-and-white photo.”

Slipping his hand inside the clear plastic bag, Whalen shuffles around the items until he comes to the white-bordered three-by-five inch photograph. He pulls it out, examining the faces of two pre-teen girls. Identical twins. In the picture they are smiling and laughing, as though playing for the camera.

“Friends of yours,” the CO jibes, acid in her voice.

“My little kittens,” exhales Whalen.

As the final gate opens, the suited, middle-aged superintendent comes forward to greet the now former inmate Whalen.

“Do yourself a favor,” the super says. “Keep a low profile in Albany. It won’t be a pleasant experience for you. Even after thirty years, people have a way of remembering.”

Whalen bows his bald, scarred head, big brown eyes peering down at the painted concrete floor.

“Cry, cry, cry,” he murmurs.

“Excuse me?” the super demands. “What did you just say?”

But Whalen falls silent.

Clearing his throat, the superintendent bites down on his tongue. Holding out his right hand, he offers it up to the now free man.

“God speed,” he says through clenched teeth.

Taking the hand in his, the former inmate gives it a long, slow, loose shake. Releasing the fleshy hand, Whalen makes his way out one final set of metal doors, beginning the trek toward the bus stop and the ride that will take him north to Albany.

As the door closes back up on the prison, the superintendent glares down at his open hand. His palm is cold, sweaty, clammy. He wipes the hand off on his pant leg before turning his back on the past, making for the set of metal stairs that lead back up to his office.

“Cry, cry, cry,” he finds himself quoting from an old nursery rhyme he knew as a child. “You naughty kittens.”

October 2, 2008

Albany, New York

In the deep night, a woman sits down at her writing table. Fingering a newly sharpened pencil, she focuses her eyes upon the blank paper and brings the black pencil tip to it.

She begins to write.

Dear Mol,

I’ve been dreaming about you again. I don’t think a night has gone by in the past few weeks when I haven’t seen your face. Our face, I should say. The face is always in my head; implanted in my memories. The dream is nothing new. It’s thirty years ago again. It’s October. I’m walking close behind you through the tall grass toward the woods. Your hair is loose and long. You’re wearing cut-offs, white Keds with the laces untied and a red T-shirt that says ‘Paul McCartney and Wings’ on the front. You’re walking ahead of me while I try to keep up; but afraid to keep up. Soon we come to the tree line, and while my heart beats in my throat, we walk into the trees. But then comes a noise-a snapping of twigs and branches. The gaunt face of a man appears. A man who lives in a house in the woods.

Then, just like that, the dream shifts and I see you kneeling beside me inside the dark, empty basement. I hear the sound of your sniffles, smell the wormy raw earth, feel the cold touch of a man’s hand. You turn and you look at me with your solid steel eyes. And then I wake up.

We survived the house in the woods together, Mol, and we never told a soul. We just couldn’t risk it. Whalen would have come back for us. He would have found us. He would have found mom and dad. Even today, I know he surely would have. He would have killed them, Mol. He would have killed us. In just five days, thirty years will have passed. Three entire decades and I’m still convinced we did the right thing by keeping that afternoon in the woods our secret.

When I see you in my dreams it’s like looking in a mirror. The blue eyes, the thick lips, the dirty blonde hair forever just touching the shoulders. My hair is finally showing signs of gray, Mol.

I wonder, do you get gray hair in heaven? I wonder if Whalen’s hair burned off in hell? I wonder if he suffers?

All my love.

Your twin sister,

Rebecca Rose Underhill

Exhaling, the woman folds the letter neatly into thirds and slips it into a blank stationary envelope, her initials RRU embossed on the label. Running the bitter, sticky glue interior over her tongue, she seals the envelope and sets it back down onto the writing table. Once more she picks up the pencil, bringing the now dulled tip to the envelope’s face. Addressing it she writes only a name:

Molly Rose Underhill

The job done, the woman smiles sadly. Opening the table drawer, she sets the letter inside, on top of a stack of nine identical letters-never-sent. One for every year her sister has been gone.

Closing the drawer, she hears her cell phone begin to vibrate, then softly chime. Picking it up off the desktop, she opens the phone and sees that a new text has been forwarded to her electronic mailbox. Fingering the inbox, she retrieves the message.

Rebecca. Nothing more.

Punching the command that reveals the name and number of the sender she finds ‘Caller Unknown’. The sender’s number has been blocked. Closing the phone back up, she sets it down on the desk. That’s when the wind picks up, blows and whistles through the open window.

“Mol,” she says, staring out into the darkness. “Mol, is that you?”

I was in no mood to argue. Even with the one person on earth I argued with the most: Robyn, my partner at the Albany Art Center or, what we lovingly referred to as, The School of Art.