Jennifer Clement - Prayers for the Stolen

Everyone in jail hated Georgia’s boyfriend.

He better not show up at this jail, Luna said.

The truth was that only one man was adored in the jail and this was Georgia’s father. He had become a legend. There was not a single daughter in that jail who was loved by their father, not one. Every prisoner was hoping that Georgia’s father would scramble the money together to come to Mexico and visit. The women wanted to meet him and the ongoing project was to start a “Bring Georgia’s Father to Mexico” fund. Violeta had his name tattooed on her arm. It was blue on her limb and it went downward, like the down column in a crossword puzzle, and read Tom .

Georgia had new clothes, shoes, bedding, and bathroom articles because her father sent her packages and money every week. Her cell was filled with British sweets. Georgia shared her Cadbury bars and red boxes of Maltesers with everyone.

As Georgia walked away to call her father, a chill filled the room, and we heard thunder. Cool air blew through the corridors and glassless windows.

Mr. Roma placed his materials away in the short metal locker at the back of the room. Luna stood and laid her collage, along with the other cardboard sheets, on a table in the back. I stacked the magazines in a pile.

The teacher said goodbye to Luna and, when he said goodbye to me, he kissed my cheek. Welcome to the workshop, he said. I hope you’ll come back.

He smelled like beer.

I didn’t rub his kiss away with my sleeve.

As Luna and I walked slowly back to our cell, the wet male saliva dried on my cheek. I felt the place on my face for hours afterward as if his kiss had left a mark on me. To have a man kiss you in a women’s jail is a gift better than any birthday or Christmas present. It’s better than a bouquet of roses. It’s better than a warm shower. I could imagine living in this jail for years and living for every workshop day and that male kiss on my cheek. That kiss was rain, sunshine, and the sweet air of outside. Yes. I knew I’d even sit there and glue stupid things onto cardboard sheets just to get that kiss again.

Later that night, as I lay above Luna in our cement bunk beds, she chattered at me in the dark. The first night I thought she was just being nice and talking to me, but now I realized she had to talk to fill the darkness. Her chatter soothed and made me drowsy.

Luna said, Can you believe that there are only twenty-six letters to say everything? There are only twenty-six letters to talk about love and jealousy and God.

Yes.

Have you realized that the words of the day are not the same as the words of the night? Luna asked.

Yes.

In the dark I could hear large trucks and buses drive by the jail. The outside sounds could only be heard early in the morning and late at night.

If you’ve been here for two years, why haven’t you been sentenced or extradited? I asked.

Princess, I never called a lawyer, or the Guatemalan Embassy, or my family. I think everyone has forgotten that I’m here.

I’m sure they miss you.

No. You might ask how can the world forget about a human being, but it happens all the time.

But don’t the people here in the jail wonder?

They assume I’m working on it. No one can imagine that I’d rather be here than anywhere else, but it’s true.

You want to stay here?

Some like it better inside than outside, Luna said. This is the best place I’ve ever been. In my village the government massacred everyone.

In Guatemala?

I lost most of my family in just two years. I walked around thinking a cold bullet was going to pierce my body at any moment. A cold bullet.

The wind that had begun as a breeze during the collage workshop was now strong and the cold air entered the building in great gusts.

I thought going to the United States would be better. I heard all the stories, Luna said.

Some say there’s nothing worse.

I’ve heard people get so thirsty they cut their arms and suck out some blood. This is in the desert. Arizona. I’ve seen cuts on a man who tried to cross but was sent back. A border guard shoots you like a wolf, if you’re lucky. If a cartel kidnaps you, like the Zetas, then you go to the land of dead immigrants, a special death place, without a birth certificate or gravestone, and nothing is worse than this.

The first big drops of rain fell on the roof and the air smelled like a mixture of water and cement.

My father’s in the United States, I said.

Imagine that a gun shooting at you is the last thing you see when you die. Imagine that being the very last image of life that you take to heaven. Do you think that the last thing you see matters?

My father is in New York, I said.

Listen, no way do I want to be buried in a cemetery with all those dead people. I want to be cremated. Do you?

I feel cold.

Yes, it’s cold.

I need some blankets soon or I’m going to get sick.

You can come down here and sleep with me, Luna offered. I don’t mind.

I sat up and scrambled down the side of the bunk bed. Luna lifted up the covers for me.

Get in, she said.

We curled up together and her body warmth entered my skin.

There, there, she said and hugged me with her arm. I felt the ghost limb of her missing arm surround me. Luna used her teeth to clench the top of the covers and pull them up to our chins.

I had known the mercy of scorpions. Now I knew the mercy of a killer.

Aurora’s cell smelled like the fumigation poison. It was a larger cell than mine as it had two bunk beds and four women lived in the room. It also had a toilet, sink, and small shower all lined up in a row at the back of the cell.

Aurora received no help from the outside. She had to take the jobs that no one wanted. She had been the jail fumigator ever since she’d been sentenced over a year ago.

There was no one in the room but Aurora. She was lying down on one of the bottom bunks. She beckoned for me to come in.

I sat on the edge of her bed while she lay under the covers. On her bed, pushed up against the wall, were dozens of plastic supermarket bags and two fumigation canisters and their hoses. Aurora’s eyes followed my gaze.

There’s no storage space in this room, she said. We all have to keep our belongings on our beds.

Aurora’s plastic bags were filled with clothes and objects that prisoners had given to her. In jail there was a superstition that if you took your belongings with you, you would come back. Aurora was a pack rat and accepted everything.

When you leave here, don’t forget to give me your things, she said.

I don’t have anything, I said.

Oh, but you will, you will.

Through the transparent plastic of one bag I could see a collection of hairbrushes and spoons.

Earlier that morning, Luna had told me that no one liked to share a cell with Aurora because of the odor from the fumigation canisters and because she hoarded everything. Luna said that her cellmates would leave the room as soon as they could and go to the patio or the large room where everyone gathered for classes and meals. This meant that Aurora had the cell to herself for the day. She slept most of the time.

Georgia called Aurora Sleeping Beauty, Luna said. She sleeps because she prefers dreams, not because she’s tired. Aurora opens the spout on the fumigation canister and smells the poison, Luna continued. She takes the fumes deep into her body and this makes her sleepy. It’s her sleeping potion.

As I sat on Aurora’s bed, the smell was overpowering. The odor had penetrated her bed, belongings, clothes, and skin. No insect would ever come near her.