Only the Moon Watching

Chapter 53: The Biggest Fight Yet

No matter how long I scrub my face in the shower or how many times I pinch my cheeks or bite my lips to give them color, the next morning I look dead tired.

"Here," Ripper hands me a plastic spoon and I flinch, as if she were trying to poke my eyes out. "No, put it on the bags. It'll depuff them."
"That's only if it's a metal spoon, Rip," says Shiv. "And if it's cold. And hasn't been in your mouth."

"Why are you so tired, Jos?" Needler asks. "You have to learn to get your rest before things like this. When you're tired – that's when you slip. I never got caught until I had a baby, but the crying keeps you up at night. I wasn't thinking on my feet the day I got arrested. If I'd only gotten my eight hours–"

"You wouldn't have the pleasure of knowing me," I joke. "I'm just anxious. A million things could go wrong! After his first letter, everyone warned me Mike wouldn't send another; that he was just 'clearing his conscience,' remember? So even if Vapor did get a message to him, maybe he'll just ignore it! If he does show up, maybe he won't bring the drugs. If he does bring the drugs maybe they get confiscated... There are actually," I wave my hands to suggest a nebulously huge number, "a million things that could go seriously wrong."

"Same with sperm though, isn't it?" Needler says plainly. Ripper drops her spoon again, giggling; Shiv and I look at each other, sharing a look like, Oh my god. "Well, any millions of things can go wrong making a baby. It's a miracle any of us are here at all!"

"It is a goddamn miracle," says Shiv, gesturing to the cinderblock walls, the concrete floors, the barricaded kitchen... "How did we ever get so lucky?" she asks dryly.

Breakfast slogs on. I eat mechanically, barely paying attention to what I'm doing. In a few minutes, I'll see Mike again. I'll know if he got the medicine in. I have a sudden mental image of a grandfather clock, the seconds ticking away loudly with every swing of the pendulum – then I realize the sound I'm hearing is Garda Girdle's shoes clacking across the floor.

"You look nervous." She regards me cooly with her heavily-lined eyes. "Why?"
"Didn't sleep well," I say honestly. "Had a bad night."

"Why?" She looks down her nose at me, like she's practiced. Like she likes to sit at home, looking into a mirror, getting her intimidating-stare perfect from all angles.

"Just didn't," I shrug. "No reason. Maybe I was too cold?"

"You're getting a visitor today. The boyfriend?"

"He was never my boyfriend," I remind her. "And I don't get nervous to see him. I just didn't get –" I fake a yawn, stretching, making a big show of splaying my hands while it's still safe to have them out of waistband. "–enough –" Another yawn. "–sleep."

"Cover your mouth, inmate. Teeth are–"

"A sign of aggression?" asks Ripper, displaying all of hers. "In dogs, yeah. And bears and wolves and things. Didn't realize that was another rule in jail..."

"Are you making them up on the spot now?" Shiv asks.

I kick her under the table. Garda Girdle glares at us all, her pupils angrily constricting. Her nostrils flare.

"If you want to see your visitor I wouldn't sass–"

Ripper and Shiv hold up their hands in surrender, barely able to conceal their grins. My heart pounds in my chest. I don't think it's funny! I didn't say anything rude to Girdle, but if she decides to punish me along with them...

She taps her shoe impatiently, thinking, and I'm reminded of the clock again. Any minute now Mike'll be searched... He might've already been... The drugs'll make their way from the guard to Chet to Steak... He'll be so touched by me – I mean, by my gesture –

"Fine," Girdle decides. "Come with me."

I look for Chet in the hallway. Or his guard. Or any trustees. Trying to figure out if the exchange has happened yet. Did Mike make it? Is he safe? More importantly – did the drugs make it past security?

My heart flutters anxiously. After the handoff happens, will Mike be able to be cool about it? Does he understand he can't just, like, flash me a thumbs up and scream "We did it!" Surely Vapor must have told him...

"Wait here." Garda Girdle leaves me in the hallway. There are four men waiting to see their visitors. One sits on the floor, hand covering his eyes, head thrown back, presumably sleeping. The other three idle, don't make eye contact with me, don't look like they've seen anything suspicious. I put my head down and keep to myself, trying to telepathically contact Mike through the steel door: How did it go? What happened? Did you get the drugs in? Does anyone suspect anything?

Through the tiny, envelope-sized window I see Chet's guard and he flashes me a quick smile. He winks. I read into it: We did it!

My heart thumps faster. Garda Girdle reappears, opens the door, lets us in. Mike is sitting on the other side of the glass, looking green but relieved. He smiles proudly. So it really happened!?

The visitation room smells like cleaning products. Puddles are still drying on the freshly mopped floor. The windows in here aren't frosted, so it's actually bright. And for the first time, kind of comforting.
"Hey," I press my hand to the glass once I'm in my seat, like in the movies. Mike meets it and sort of crunches his fingers, like he's imagining grasping me. Holding onto me.

"You uh.. Having a good day?"
"It's been pretty perfect," he says, nodding. "Happy you're ok, too. How's your roommate?"

"Cellie."

For our allotted fifteen minutes we just shoot the shit. I tell him about Shiv, he tells me he ran into my mom at the gas station and she ignored him. We pretend like we're just two old friends catching up. Having a totally normal conversation.

"Five minutes!" Garda Girdle warns.

"Hey, honestly: thank you for visiting me," I say, trying to put as much earnesty in my voice as I can. "It really means so–"

I'm looking into Mike's eyes, so I don't see how it starts. My head slumps forward as I'm pushed from behind – a chair goes flying across the room – someone else's telephone clocks me in the ear –

Garda Girdle whips out her radio and sprints into the middle of the fight. The four men from the hallway are tangled in a mess of kicking, scrabbling arms and legs like a tumbleweed. I can't tell where one ends and the next begins.

"Josephina!" yells Mike, as one of the men grasps onto the ends of my hair and starts to pull me into the dog pile.

I yelp, trying to claw myself free of his grip. Chet's guard pushes past me, stepping on my feet and knocking his elbow into my jaw. I'm still being yanked towards the testosterone vortex, losing my footing on the slippery just-mopped floor. The dog pile trips, slips, and crashes into the glass barrier. The man releases his grip on my hair and I run to press my back against the exit. Girdle grabs my arm and yanks me into the hallway, closing the door behind us.