J. McKenna - Wanted - Kept Woman

“You don’t know that.”

“I feel it in my bones, Wen.”

“Okay, that’s it.” She stood and went to the phone.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m calling my hairdresser. A new ‘do is the first step toward a new you!”

Sam Carlucci stalked out of his cell at the Santa Clara County Jail, shoulders back. His dark hair was combed back and peaked in the center, like a refugee from the fifties. His face was hard, unsmiling, as if he’d been incarcerated for ten years, not seven months. He imagined himself a tough con, being led out of the Big House—hardened, mean and full of wicked new ideas. He carried his meager belongings in front of him in a small box—pictures, writings and toiletries. The beefy black deputy followed, tapping his nightstick lightly against his leg.

“Gonna be a good boy now, Sammy?” the guard asked, his voice rich with sarcasm.

“Yessuh, masta’,” Sam replied. “Isa be a good boy now.”

The deputy scoffed. “You sure talk funny for a white boy.” He signaled the guard at the gate and stood back as the heavy metal grate slid to the side. Entering, the two men waited for it to close behind them, then another gate opened in front, allowing them to pass.

“This way,” the guard said, though it was unnecessary—every inmate knew the way out. They walked down the cement corridor to a steel door with inch-high letters that said “Processing”. The guard tapped on it with his stick and offered a final piece of advice to the sullen inmate.

“You know if ya screw up, you won’t be comin’ back to county—they’ll send you’ ass right to the big house, ya hear?”

Sam just nodded, his eyes flat, his anger kept in check. The door opened and he stepped through, almost into the arms of a massive black guard with biceps the size of loaves of bread that strained against his short-sleeved shirt. The guard moved aside. The room was small. At one end, stood a waist-high counter, topped by a wire mesh screen with a slot in the center. A skinny corrections officer sat on a stool, looking bored. The huge black man moved back to stand against the wall, near the only other door to the room, marked “Exit”. He stared at Sam, as if daring him to do something stupid.

“Carlucci?” asked the officer behind the screen. Sam turned and nodded. The officer read from a clipboard. “Sam Carlucci, you are hereby being released by the County of Santa Clara for the crimes of assault and battery, stalking and malicious mischief. You’ve served seven months of a nine-month sentence and are being released under the stipulation that you are to have no contact with your ex-wife, Suzanne Montgomery. You are being notified that the restraining order is still in effect and that if you violate this order, you will be immediately returned to jail or other correctional facility and may face additional time. You must report to a probation officer regularly for a period of three years from today and you must submit to drug tests on a regular basis. Do you understand the terms of your release?”

Sam nodded again, keeping his anger in check. The guard shook his head. “You have to state your response out loud.” He pointed to the video camera, aimed at Sam’s face.

“I understand the conditions. I’m to have no contact with my ex-wife. I have to report to a probation officer.”

Nodding, the guard walked farther back into a small storage area, out of sight.

“Take off your clothes,” growled the large black officer behind him. Sam put down his box on the counter and began removing the blue jail smock, glad to be free of the hated outfit. While he was busy, the first officer returned and shoved a tray through the slot at the bottom of the screen.

“Sign for these,” he said. Sam, naked now, approached the screen. He looked inside, spotting the clothes he’d come in here with. With much satisfaction, he began to put them on. Blue dress shirt, tan pants. He took the tie and tossed it into the trashcan. Brown socks and loafers completed the ensemble. The shoes pinched.

He felt like a new man. Or, at least a sense, that his life was returning to normal. Sam flexed his muscles under the shirt, surprised to discover that it fit tightly across the shoulders now. Lifting weights had done some good. He patted his stomach, feeling the ripple of his abs underneath the shirt.

Hey, lookin’ good , he mused. Santa Clara County’s bodybuilding regimen seems to have paid off. Seven months to a new you!

Sam opened the manila envelope in the bottom of the tray and took out his wallet, watch and his wedding ring. He counted his money—seventeen dollars. At least he hadn’t been robbed by the guards. He held up the gold ring and let it catch the light. He was tempted to toss it into the trash with the tie but decided against it. He tucked it into his pants pocket instead.

“Sign here,” the guard said.

Sam signed, not even reading what he was signing. Fuck ‘em.

“This way,” the massive guard said with a toss of his head, unlocking the other door with a key the size of a roll of nickels.

Sam didn’t have to be told twice. He picked up his cardboard box and stepped through the opened door. The light seemed brighter here, the air fresher. He could see two long rows of glass blocks embedded into the cement wall across the hall. A beautiful late-summer sun illuminated them, casting a yellow-gold light into his eyes. He was almost out—he could taste it. Another guard waited for him, a skinny old guy everyone called Barney because he bore a passing resemblance to Barney Fife, the TV deputy.

“This way,” the guard said. “You couldn’tna picked a better day to get out. Must be eighty-five degrees out there.” They walked together down the corridor. Ahead, Sam could see the main door to the county jail. The last steel gate slid aside and he stepped through into the lobby. Barney accompanied him to the double glass doors.

“You take care of yourself now. We don’t want to see you come back.” He held open one of the doors for Sam.

“Oh, I won’t,” Sam said, and walked out, a free man.

“Bus stop’s right there,” Barney said, leaning out the open door, pointing. “Bus’ll be along in about fifteen minutes.”

Nodding, Sam turned toward the bench. He closed his eyes against the light because it hurt his eyes and walked blindly for a few steps, feeling the air, the sun and the wind as if for the first time.

When he reached the bench, he sat down, wishing he had a cigarette. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with rich, free air.

Looking down into the box on his lap, he could see a dated snapshot of his ex-wife Suzanne smiling up at him.

He smiled back. “Bitch,” he said.

A week later, Suzanne had to admit that Wendy had been right. She’d started a diet and had already lost five pounds. Yesterday, Wendy had taken her down to get a new hairstyle—shorter and lighter, with highlights mixed in. She looked better, she felt better—wow! Even a small change can do wonders for one’s self-image, she decided.

“See? I told you,” Wendy told her as they met at the mall to celebrate her new look. Since Suzanne was skipping lunches, they had a full hour to check out some flattering dresses to show off her more slender body.

The women flew from store to store, trying on outfits and shoes and giggling like high school kids. Suzanne bought a new dress, plus a skirt and a pair of shoes. She used up her clothing allowance for the next six months.

“Don’t worry about it,” Wendy had told her. “When you meet your sugar daddy, this won’t matter.”

“Oh, yeah, right,” she retorted. But she did feel more attractive now. The small changes had helped break her out of the doldrums.