Amity Gaige - Schroder

I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down.

I let you down. I let you down. I let you down.

I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. I let you down.

I’ve been silent a long time now. Twenty-one days by my count. My voice, when I hear it in my sleep, has acquired an odd depth from disuse, a kind of virgin hoarseness. My speech strike has been an interesting experiment, bringing me just about everything except for what I’d hoped. As a tactical method, it’s been a clear failure. I’ve been deemed noncooperative, and despite my polite notes explaining my silence, I’ve been placed under protective custody and left entirely in my cell for all but an hour of solitary roaming in the gym. I haven’t seen my daughter. I haven’t heard a word. All I know is that the letter I tried to send against the advice of my lawyer to the old Pine Hills apartment was returned to me unopened, with no forwarding address. I’m left to think that all I’ve gained from my silence is this document, one I never would have written if I had allowed myself to speak. If I had spoken, I would have jawed all day long in the dayroom with the other guys. I would have sung under my breath at night. I would have made friends with the guards or found my way to the infirmary, or into one of the workshops on child development offered to those who’ve acquired an academic interest in how they got here. Instead, I wrote.

I wrote to you, Laura. I wrote for you and because of you and with you in mind, sitting across the kitchen table in your old gray cardigan. I could not have written this document without writing it for you. I could not have written this document if I had thought you weren’t listening. But now that I’ve come to the end of it, pulling up to the present moment, I’m struck by the sudden understanding that I cannot require you to read it. Or maybe I understand that you never will. You just never will. Even if this document passes the vetting of my lawyer, even if he decides that it mitigates instead of aggravates the charges against me, it will be sent to you (at your new address) as an inert pile of papers wrapped in twine. You’ll come home one day, see it waiting for you, and you will pause. You’ll heft it off your stoop and put it on the table. Meadow will ask you what it is and you’ll say Just some thing . She’ll run away to change out of her school clothes and you will look out the window and sigh. That evening, after she is in bed, her hair damp from the bath, her eyeglasses stored in her sneaker, her face kissed fifty times in all the ritual places, you’ll tuck up your legs and attempt to read.

But you’ll only get so far. A page or two. It’s too much. You’ll read it later. You want less and less to do with the proceedings. Your testimony at my hearing will be brief, reluctant. You want to move on. You don’t wish me ill anymore, but you’ve also stopped caring what happens to me. Somewhere in your soul you’ve disengaged, you’ve uncoupled, you’ve let go. You’ve turned to your daughter, to encouraging her happiness and bracing yourself for her questions. In fact, it occurs to me now, the only reason you would ever read this document is if you wanted to intercede. If you wanted to save me.

How strange to be quiet here, of all places. I have often wanted to babble just to contribute to the noise. Constant noise, constant light. And me sitting like a poet in the middle of it. It’s funny to listen to people talk when you can’t respond. People talk so much . Gaggingly long monologues on minor personal preferences. Verbatim recitations of pointless conversations. Uninterpreted bits of memory. Take the man in the neighboring cell. A classic recidivist, a real prison grandfather. He almost seems relieved to be back in prison just so he can talk as much as he wants. The whole unblinking day he talks. He arrived about a week after my extradition here to CCI Albany. Having been outside during the heart of my news cycle, he’s a fan of my case, and he talks about it through the vents endlessly. He says he knows the prosecuting attorney in my case, and for long hours he parses this woman’s trial record with a certain bloodless admiration, and I can’t help but listen.

“Don’t worry, Kennedy,” this man says. “You’ll be all right once they realize you’re not a monster. And you are not a monster. You wouldn’t even be in here if it wasn’t for your famous name. Ironic, isn’t it? If you weren’t a Kennedy, no one would have bothered with you.”

I rest the side of my head against the wall and massage my scalp with the gritty surface. I’m sitting at my metal desk. My stool is kindergarten short and dented like an old cookie sheet. I’ve got my yellow legal pad. I’ve got my dull pencil. An exquisite five minutes go by without commentary. I close my eyes and let my mind dance lightly, remembering. After a moment, I see a familiar shadow approaching, swaying back and forth against the kitchen wainscoting. Someone enters the kitchen, his face wrapped in gauze. I open my eyes, waiting for pleasanter memories to surface. But they don’t come.

“Yeah, you’ll be all right, Kennedy. You’ll be all right.” I hear my friend lean his weight against his cell door, and I marvel at his ability to stand up for the entire day. “But what is all right, you know? They won’t let you near your kid. They’ll try to ship you home to Bavaria or wherever the hell.”