In The Sanctuary Of Outcasts_ A Memoir Part 22

Smeltzer gave the woman a drink and held his own with both hands. His fingers were tight nubs that looked ready to burst through the skin. He put the drink to his lips and turned it up.

Ella cranked across the scuffed ballroom floor. Her hair was down and neatly combed. Her bra.s.s hoop earrings swayed with each turn of her hand. She stopped and smiled at me. Her skirt was empty and flat and draped over the edge of her wheelchair.

"Gonna put your legs on?" I asked.

She shook her head. "You gonna stay for the first dance?"

An old hippie tapped the microphone and said something about how much he loved the Carville gig. A loud, off-key rock song pumped out of the speakers. The patients limped and wheeled and slid their walkers out onto the dance floor. Stan, the blind jazz musician, scatted in the corner with his white tapping stick-great rhythm, head and mouth cool like Ray Charles. Harry shuffled to and fro. Smeltzer held his hands over his head and shook them toward heaven like this would be the last song he'd ever hear.

Arms flailed. Bandaged hands flew into the air. Whiskey spilled on the floor.

Ella swiveled her wheelchair to the beat in tiny movements. She motioned for me and offered her hand. Her long, elegant fingers, well cared for despite dead nerves, were soft and smooth. She swayed inside her chair. I took her hand and matched her rhythm. Harry, from under his hat, gave me a nod. I moved behind Ella and leaned her wheelchair back. I pushed her chair around the edge of the ballroom and turned her in circles. She stretched out her arms like she was flying. She looked over her shoulder at me and smiled. Her eyes were wide and alive like I imagined they had been when she ran and danced as a reckless young girl. We spun and twirled and slid until we were dizzy and the room disappeared.

Toward the end of the song that lasted too long, Chase and Lonnie, the trusty inmates who spent more time than any others helping patients, danced into the room from the leprosy side. Chase was tall and fit from Duchaine's diet and exercise program. He wore a cap to keep his long black hair out of his eyes. He danced into the middle of the patients. Chase tapped the shoulder of the prost.i.tute and got a little too close for Smeltzer's liking. Chase was a good dancer, and the woman liked the attention. She laughed and danced lower and lower as Chase matched her moves.

The music stopped. The patients clapped as best they could.

Duchaine looked at me like I was demented, but I didn't care. I pushed Ella back to the center of the floor. I took her hand and bowed.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing!?" Smeltzer yelled.

I looked up. He was screaming at Chase, who stood perfectly still. The room was quiet, and I was glad not to be the focus of Smeltzer's ire.

"You're not invited!" Smeltzer said, pointing the remains of his index finger at Chase. Then he turned toward me. "You either! No inmates at our party!"

I looked for my friends. Ella's smile had disappeared. Harry looked at the floor.

"Go on," Smeltzer said to Chase. "You're not welcome here." Then he looked at me. "Go on. Get!"

Chase and Lonnie scurried away together. Dan and I walked behind them along the concrete corridor that led back to the inmate wing.

"Jesus," Dan said, "did we just get kicked out of a leper dance?"

My release notice.

CHAPTER 76.

Late in the evening after the dance, the guards came for Chase and Lonnie. They were escorted to the hole. Rumor was they would lose their good time. If they came back for me, and I lost the fifty-four days of good time I had earned, I might be transferred to another prison, instead of released.

When Mr. Flowers arrived in my room, I a.s.sumed he had come to take me away. I was prepared to confess to dancing with Ella. I had already promised myself I would tell the truth, no matter the consequences.

"Congratulations," he said, as he handed me my release papers. I would leave Carville on April 25, 1994. I would report to a halfway house on Magazine Street in New Orleans in a matter of days.

I was relieved that the guards never came for me. Perhaps they didn't consider my dancing a violation since I was in the ballroom under orders. Or maybe because I didn't make a move on Smeltzer's prost.i.tute.

I lay in bed after lights-out, the time of night when, as a child, I would dream about being on the pages of The Guinness Book of World Records The Guinness Book of World Records. I should have been thinking about my release. About ways to remember the lessons I'd learned. But as much as I tried to push the thoughts of breaking records out of my head, it didn't work.

I had always wanted to achieve one feat never before attained by man, and I couldn't help but imagine that it had happened. Tonight. The first ever to be ejected from a leprosy dance.

A garden lined with c.o.ke bottles, ca. 1950s. The local Coca-Cola distributor had refused to accept the returnable bottles from the leprosarium.

CHAPTER 77.

I stood in the breezeway and waited for Ella. I had two things to tell her. First, I would be going home in a matter of days. The second was more difficult. With my release looming, I was acutely aware that I had not really changed during my year at Carville. I had decided decided I needed to change, but I was the still the same man who walked through the gates a year earlier. I awoke each morning wanting to do something great. I wanted to set records, whether it was the most magazines sold or a 100 percent success rate with my GED students. I relished accolades, even if prompted by a fruit and vegetable garnish. And, clearly, I had not abandoned my dream of being first, even if that first was being evicted from a dance. I needed to change, but I was the still the same man who walked through the gates a year earlier. I awoke each morning wanting to do something great. I wanted to set records, whether it was the most magazines sold or a 100 percent success rate with my GED students. I relished accolades, even if prompted by a fruit and vegetable garnish. And, clearly, I had not abandoned my dream of being first, even if that first was being evicted from a dance.

"Hard on yourself," she said, after I told her my apprehension.

I shook my head. "Everybody says I need to become a new person before I get out."

"You is what you is." Ella took a deep breath and looked across the inmate courtyard. "You know 'bout them drink bottles?" she asked.

"No."

Ella intertwined her fingers like she always did when she told a story. In the early days of Carville, she explained, the Coca-Cola distributor from Baton Rouge sent chipped and cracked c.o.ke bottles to the colony, so he could refuse to accept the return bottles. He feared a public boycott if customers discovered the gla.s.s containers had been touched by the lips of leprosy patients.

"More drink bottles than you ever seen," she said. The crates of bottles filled closets and storerooms. But the patients discovered new uses for the nonreturnable bottles. They used them as flower vases with beautiful arrangements. They became sugar dispensers in the cafeteria. For impromptu bowling games on the lawn, the bottles were used as pins. They were turned upside down and stuffed into the dirt to line flower beds and walks on the Carville grounds.

"CoCola bottle still a CoCola bottle," Ella said. "Just found 'em a new purpose."

CHAPTER 78.

The day before I was released, I packed my belongings. Everything I owned fit into two boxes. I couldn't believe a year had nearly pa.s.sed.

I thought about my conversations with Ella, conversations I would revisit for a lifetime. Of all the wonderful things she taught me-the importance of home, about what people think, about being with my children-the most important might be the story of the c.o.ke bottles.

For five months, I had agonized over how I should change. I examined the details of my past, the character flaws that contributed to my personal failure, the allure that applause held for me, my discovery that a pristine image could cover dark secrets, my attempts to balance bad deeds with good, and my optimism unchecked by good financial sense.

But I knew my essence had not really changed. I would always be the same person. Same skills, same personality, same character traits.

The story of the c.o.ke bottles was a wonderful parting gift. I didn't need to be a new person. I needed a new purpose. If I could follow Ella's lead-live simply, hide nothing, help others-maybe I would find a new purpose for my life. The challenge would be whether I could hold on to, and remember, the lessons when I lived on the outside.

Living simply might be the easiest. Many of my temptations would be out of reach. I'd never be asked to be on the board of directors of a bank. I'd never be asked to serve as treasurer of a club. I'd never be elected to the vestry of a church or be asked to head up the stewardship committee.

Hiding nothing would be a struggle. It went against my nature. But Ella was a great model. If I could embrace my criminal conviction, if I could be transparent about my scars and indebtedness, not hide them, just like Ella did with her leprosy, it would be a step in the right direction. I even had a few things working in my favor. The move to Oxford, one I had dreaded, seemed to fit. In a large city, my felony conviction would be easy to hide. But in Oxford, I would have no choice. I couldn't hide my past even if I wanted to. And that was good.

I didn't know exactly how to go about helping others. But if I could remember that truly great acts are the small, quiet ones that no one hears about, that would be a start. I could look for ways to help people in need of a boost, to align myself with underdogs. I needed to remember Ella and Harry. Their intent. Perhaps it didn't matter what I did to earn a living, as long as the motive was to help others and not just gain attention.

I liked that the bottles were chipped and broken. They were damaged goods. Nonreturnable. I felt the same way. I could never go back to the place I'd been. I could never regain my reputation and credibility. I would never have a flawless image.

As I started packing my boxes, I remembered the day I was sentenced. When Judge Walter Gex said, "Eighteen months in federal prison," I couldn't believe what I was hearing. After imposing my sentence, he warned me about living as a convicted felon and recited a long list of restrictions. I didn't remember much of it. But I remembered his parting words. As he left the courtroom, he looked at me as if he had been troubled by his decision.

"Neil," he said, "I hope you can make something good come out of this."

CHAPTER 79.

My last night as a federal prisoner, a few inmates organized a party in an empty room in the Dutchtown unit. They all pitched in and made a vat of instant soup with slices of summer sausage from the commissary. Brownies from the vending machine were spread out on paper towels. Larry played his fiddle, the one tune he knew, and we recounted stories of the last year. We laughed about Smeltzer's m.u.f.fuletta scheme and his prost.i.tute. Slim told about looking for "cubicle hairs" in the women's restroom. I smiled whenever someone reminisced about Link, Doc, CeeCee, Frank Ragano, or Ms. Woodsen's b.u.t.t.

We were the last of the inmates. We would all be leaving soon. We'd had some fun together, even in prison. The party didn't feel much different from the last night of summer camp sitting around a fire telling stories about the session. But we wouldn't see each other next summer.

At 9:00 P.M P.M., a guard told us to shut the party down. Brady pa.s.sed out small sheets of paper so we could exchange addresses and phone numbers. Gary reminded us that these would soon be obsolete since we'd be communicating over something called the World Wide Web, but I was skeptical.

On my way back to my room, I checked the Call-Out sheet again. April 25, 1994. Neil White. Receiving and Discharge. 8:00 A.M A.M.

I emptied my locker and left my boots outside the door for anyone who might need them. I gave my Playboy Playboy s to my friend Danny and a long-sleeve T-shirt to Sergio. Then I packed the rest of my belongings: a few pairs of socks, six T-shirts, five books, photographs, and a few remaining letters and notebooks. Everything fit into two cardboard boxes. s to my friend Danny and a long-sleeve T-shirt to Sergio. Then I packed the rest of my belongings: a few pairs of socks, six T-shirts, five books, photographs, and a few remaining letters and notebooks. Everything fit into two cardboard boxes.

I set my alarm for 7:00 A.M A.M. and climbed into my prison bunk for the very last time. I put my arm over my eyes to block the light and waited for sleep to come.

PART VI.

My Last Day April 25, 1994

CHAPTER 80.

I dropped my boxes at Receiving and Discharge, in the same room where I was first strip-searched nearly a year ago. Then I walked to the cafeteria to say good-bye to the kitchen staff. I wanted to go into the patient dining hall to say good-bye to my friends on the leprosy side, but I didn't want to risk breaking the rules on my last day. I did get a glimpse of a few patients through the lattice wall, but I couldn't get their attention.

After a breakfast of french toast and sausage, I made my way around the colony for a few farewells. I'd arranged to meet Ella and Harry in the breezeway a few minutes before eight to say our goodbyes. On my way, I encountered Father Reynolds and reminded him it was my last day. He stepped off his bike, put his hands on my head, and said a short blessing. Then he said in his soft, stammering voice that I was welcome in the Catholic church anytime.

At the education department I said good-bye to the six or seven inmates who still attended cla.s.s. I thanked Patty, the librarian, for her efforts, especially for forming the book club. Ms. Woodsen stuck her head through the library door and interrupted. "You leaving today, Mr. White?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am," I said.

"You just might have something comin'." She smiled. I think Ms. Woodsen liked me. She seemed sincere in her good wishes, and I felt bad about laughing at the jokes about her rear.

Ms. Carter, the education secretary, started to cry when I entered her office. "I'm sorry," she said, sniffling and dabbing her nose with a tissue, "but some people just make good inmates."

Mr. Povenmire, the education director, didn't say anything to me, but he never had acknowledged my presence. I hoped he would drop the hard-line att.i.tude on my last day, but I was wrong.

I walked around the inmate corridor one last time. There were as many guards here now as inmates. I waved to a case manager, a lieutenant, and the a.s.sistant warden. I even said good-bye to Mr. Flowers, who nodded and said "Good luck, Mr. White." He said my name like it tasted bad in his mouth.

I strolled past the handball courts and stopped at the breezeway where I was to meet Ella and Harry. As I waited for them to arrive, I took in the colony one more time. I breathed in the deep aroma of the banana trees. I looked hard at the sun's rays as they cut through the branches of the live oaks. I watched some inmates meander in the courtyard. Where I was headed, I didn't imagine I would see many men simply pa.s.sing the time.

My mother and father waited outside. They had been divorced for almost two decades, but they came here together to greet me. I could only imagine how they felt about my prospects. A thirty-three-yearold son with ma.s.sive debt, a felony conviction, no job, no home, no spouse, two children, and acc.u.mulated a.s.sets that fit into two cardboard boxes. They were worried, understandably.

And I was too. My hands were a bit shaky.

But I did feel fortunate. I had made friends with men and women I never would have known on the outside-Doc and Link, Frank Ragano and Dan Duchaine. And of course Harry and Ella. Link was right about one thing: none of us would have been friends anywhere else.

I would miss them all, but as much as anything else I would miss time. Time to daydream. Time to walk. Time to pay attention. Time to plan adventures for my new life, a new life with my children. Time to remember that great great doesn't always mean doesn't always mean big big. And time, especially, with Ella.

I had no idea if I would ever see her again. I would be on federal probation for five years. I would not be allowed to leave Oxford without permission. And regardless of what Father Reynolds said, I a.s.sumed the public health authorities would not welcome ex-cons back to Carville. I didn't know if I'd ever have another conversation with Ella. I had no idea how long she would live.

I was excited, but also apprehensive. Excited about building a new home with Neil and Maggie. Overjoyed I would see them every day. Hopeful I could make up for this year apart. But I was also afraid. Afraid of going back out to a place that held so many temptations for me. Afraid I would make promises I couldn't keep. Afraid I would try to impress people with how well I would recover from failure. Afraid of returning to Oxford, where as a child I'd been scarred by a fall, and where as an adult I had acted so recklessly. I was afraid I would build new prisons for myself, the kind I had built long before I was convicted of a crime.

I heard Jimmy Harris squeeze the horn attached to his tricycle handles. He peddled toward me and stopped at the ramp.

"Good morning, young fellow," he said. I shook Jimmy's hand and I thanked him for being so generous with his stories.

"Well," he said, "I just fell in love with you as soon as we met."

I'd heard him say those very words to at least a dozen other inmates. I didn't point out that he forgot my name most of the time, but I did remind him that I was leaving.

"Good," he said, "good for you."

I wished him luck on his book.

"King of the Microbes," he said. "You're gonna buy one, right?"

"Absolutely."