Jessie shivered in her leather coat and wished her car would warm up. She fiddled with the heater settings in an attempt to coax more warmth out of the vehicle. The morning had started out in the high forties, but a stiff breeze from the north had made the early spring day feel like January. Stomach rumbling, she headed for the hot dog place and out of habit, glanced down Mark’s street as she stopped at the intersection on the corner.
What in the world? The front lawn of the building was full of furniture and other items. It looked like someone was getting evicted. She began driving past, feeling vaguely sorry for whoever it was, when it dawned on her Taylor could be in that situation soon. Slamming on the brake, she stopped, as a horrified thought hit her. What if those were Mark’s belongings? She ignored the glare of the driver who passed her on the right. If it was, all of his things would disappear within hours. She stomped on the gas and did a U-turn, pulling up in front of Mark’s building just as a group of teens began pawing through boxes.
Jessie jumped out of the car and flashed her badge. Judging by all the photography equipment tossed haphazardly into boxes, it had to belong to Mark. “Step away, please.” The youths looked at her and the badge. One protested, “Hey! We’re not breaking the law. We always get to take what we want from evictions.”
She strode up to him, stopping close enough to count his eyelashes. “I’m sure you do, but some of these items might be important in an ongoing government investigation. The landlord should have cleared it with the FBI first.” In all likelihood the landlord had been given permission, but the teens didn’t know that.
The kids gave a token protest and grumbled, but left. Jessie, hands on her hips, gazed around at all the boxes. She would take what she could. If nothing else, she could send it to Mark’s parents. Thirty minutes later, her car was packed with boxes. She had decided to try to get as much of the photography equipment as she could stuff into her car. When Mark came back, he would want that.
After unloading the car at her apartment that evening, she decided to swing by his place again to see if she could salvage anything more. What she saw made her jaw drop. A lamp lay broken, its shade missing, a box of papers that appeared to be the contents of a junk drawer, and some clothing, dirty and trampled, was all that remained. Sickened, she reached into the papers and pulled out a piece of junk mail. It was addressed to Mark Taylor. She let the mail flutter back into the box.
That evening, she sat at her kitchen table and examined the cameras. All of them hung open with the film compartments empty. She was sure any undeveloped film had been confiscated, but the equipment itself was of no use to the Feds.
She picked one up that had a cracked lens. She didn’t know much about cameras, but that couldn’t be good. Setting it aside, she reached in and pulled out an older camera. Its solid black body was textured, and the lens ring looked to be made of brass instead of plastic. Her grandfather had owned a camera that looked similar, but probably wasn’t nearly as old as this one. It was certainly an antique, and maybe an heirloom? Turning it in her hands, she marveled at its simplicity compared to all the gizmos on modern cameras. She wondered if it took regular thirty-five millimeter film. Unlike the others, this one held film. She thought it odd until she saw the counter was set at one, perhaps they hadn’t bothered because the film was still unused? Or maybe they had overlooked it since the camera was obviously old. Did it even work?
Jessie returned all the other equipment to the box and stashed it in her hall closet. She wanted to go over the antique camera a bit more, but it had been a long day and she was exhausted so she left it on the table. It could wait until tomorrow.
The next morning was a Saturday, and she dashed around town doing errands. Her car needed an oil change, her fridge was almost bare, and if she didn’t get her hair trimmed, she knew she would end up taking scissors to it herself, a situation that never ended well.
Later that afternoon, she collapsed on the sofa. The pantry was stocked, the car now good for another three thousand miles and, she ran a hand through her now neatly trimmed locks and smiled; her hair was safe from the kitchen shears. She started to doze, then remembered her niece’s dance recital and groaned. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to go, she loved watching Maggie dance, but she couldn’t help wishing that it wasn’t this Saturday. Not that next Saturday would be any better. There never seemed to be enough time on the weekend to get everything done.
Glancing at her clock, she saw that if she was going to make it to the ballet recital, she’d have to hurry. Thirty minutes later, she had her hand on the doorknob when her phone rang.
“Hello?” She tucked the phone against her shoulder as she fished her keys out of her pocket.
“Hey, Jess.” It was her sister, Barb. In the background, Jessie heard a multitude of excited little girl voices. The recital was going to start in twenty minutes. She’d be cutting it close, and figured her sister was checking to see if she was coming or not.
“I’m on my way-save me a seat, okay?”
“Of course, but I’m glad I caught you. I forgot my camera. Can you bring yours?”
Jessie tried to remember where she had stashed hers. She hardly ever used it. Well, it had to be here somewhere. “Sure.” It took her ten minutes to find it, and when she did, she discovered she had no film. Damn. Already, she would be lucky to get there before the first class did their routine. Her gaze fell on the old camera still sitting on her table. It had film. She didn’t think Mark would mind, besides, he’d probably never know. She grabbed it and hurried out the door.
Sweat dripped into his eyes and Mark swiped it with his shoulder as he finished his last two push-ups. He sat on the floor, his back against the edge of his bed, and reached over to grab his shirt. He felt too sweaty to put it on right away, and held it loosely in his fist until he cooled down. Since returning from the hospital, he had renewed his exercise routine, but not with the same precision. Mostly, he did it out of boredom. There had been no more interrogations, which he was thankful for, but he hadn’t been out of his cell since returning from the hospital ward except for showers.
Once more he had lost the ability to track the passing of time. He tried counting meals, because for awhile, they came at regular intervals, but once he regained some of the weight, the meals became unpredictable again. His stomach rumbled even as he thought of food. He couldn’t be sure, but his trays had a tad more food on them since he had returned, but even so, he never felt full.
Time passed in mind-numbing boredom. Mark tried to envision photo shoots, but had difficulty focusing. The silence ate at him. Heavy and oppressive, it saturated the cell. Maybe his mind was trying to fill that silence, because he swore he heard people talking to him. Not all the time, but enough that it scared the hell out of him. Was he losing his mind? Were they screwing with him and playing voices over the speakers?
Except the voices belonged to people he knew. Once, he heard his mother calling him to dinner. Another time, Jessie’s voice came to him and said that she liked mustard on her hot dog. In fact, when he thought about it, the voices always spoke about something related to food, so he figured it was all in his head.
Mark stood and ran some water on his hand, then patted his face. When he had first started exercising again, he had, without thinking, splashed water on his face in his usual fashion. The simple act caused him to hyper-ventilate until he became so dizzy, he had so sit with his head between his knees. Now he made do with the least amount of water possible.
He had just finished swiping the remainder on his chest when the key turned in the lock. He held his breath until he saw it was the doctor. At last, another person to talk to, even if it was only for a few minutes. Mark ignored the guards who stood ready at the door.
“Hey, Doc.” Mark wanted to shake the man’s hand, but he’d learned that wasn’t acceptable, so he settled for nodding.
“Hello, Mark.” The man wasn’t chock full of warmth, but at least he wasn’t the one who attended Mark’s near drowning. “I see you’re keeping in shape. You could stand to gain a few pounds.”
Looking down at his washboard belly, Mark patted it and smiled. “I always wanted a six-pack. Guess I can thank the government for finally attaining one.”
“Yes, I guess you can.” There was no humor in the doctor’s voice. “Have a seat please.”
Mark’s smile faltered. He should have learned by now that the man would do no more than he had to do. No joking, no small talk. Nothing that would give Mark the impression that the doc regarded him as anything other than a job to do.
After a quick exam, the doctor made a couple of notes on a small pad of paper. “You’re looking good. Your shoulders are doing better?”
“Yeah.” Mark rotated them to prove it. “I’ve been given some time off.”
“Right. Well, until next time I come by, just keep doing what you’ve been doing. The exercise routine is a good idea, but don’t overdo it. That might be what’s keeping your weight down.” The doctor walked over to the door and without another word, left the cell.
Mark slumped onto his bed and lay down. Maybe the chaplain would come soon. Once in awhile he visited. He was nicer. While he didn’t stay long, he did ask Mark if he had any requests. The last time, Mark had asked for some books. The chaplain said he would pass on the request. It had been awhile now.
There was nothing to fill his time. He could sleep, but that brought pain. Not the kind inflicted by an interrogation. No, this was worse. It was pain born of loss and frustration. Despite the risk, he still craved the dreams sleep brought. He’d dream of food. Dreams so vivid, he’d wake to find his mouth watering. He’d lie still and try to fall back into the dreams, and sometimes, he succeeded.
It wasn’t just the food, it was the good times and happy memories surrounding the meals. Pancakes dripping with maple syrup at Boy Scout breakfasts. Fried chicken on Sunday afternoon after church. Lazy summer afternoons eating watermelon on the front porch while his mom hung laundry to dry. His dad waving away smoke as he manned the grill while Uncle Larry and Mark played a game of catch on the Fourth of July. The smell of the hot dogs, brats and burgers had tantalized them. Mark swallowed. Afterwards, they’d feast on apple pie topped with homemade ice cream. His mom would smile at him as he tucked into his dessert. It was his favorite and she’d made it especially for him.
Then the dreams changed. The smile on his mother’s face would turn to confusion, and she’d look at him blankly, without recognition. It was the lies she’d been told by the authorities; he’d never been allowed to call and explain. The dream would go on, with his dad holding out a plate piled high with Thanksgiving favorites, only he’d withdraw the offering as Mark reached for it. Then Jessie would appear and just as he bent to kiss her, she’d push him away with the look of fear he’d seen back in the holding cell.
He’d awaken with a gnawing in his gut. A hollow ache. She hadn’t believed him. No one believed him. Had his shame been made public? Did anyone know where he was? Had they even tried to contact him? Or had they forgotten him and gone on with their lives? Did they hate him that much? Even his mother?
The scrape of his meal tray sliding across the floor pulled him from his thoughts. What would it be this time? He was sure it wouldn’t be apple pie. He squashed his disappointment when he saw grits. Pancakes would have been nice. Out of habit, he stepped to the sink and washed his hands, not that anyone would care if he ate without doing so, but his mother had ingrained the action. Cupping some water, he patted some onto his cheeks and neck. It made his skin crawl to splash the water on his face, but he forced himself to deal with it on shower days. It was either that, or never shower again. Right at the moment, he needed one. He sniffed down by his underarm. Badly. When he rubbed his hand across his jaw, the stubble felt prickly, almost beard length. A shave would be nice too.
After washing, he sat cross-legged on the floor, tray balanced on his lap. He grimaced. Grits. Well, it was food and it would fill his belly. Out of necessity, he ate quickly, lest they demand the tray back before he was done. Sometimes, that meant shoveling the food in without using any utensils. Today, he did his best to eat in the manner his mother had taught him. He even imagined eating breakfast with his parents. His dad asked him how the photography business was going, but Mark knew what he really meant was, had he come to his senses yet and taken a real job.
His mother would brag about some photo Mark had done, pointing out how talented he was. Then she would ask him if he was seeing anyone special. It was no secret that she longed for grandchildren. His folks drove him nuts with their nagging. A lump rose in his throat. He stared at the empty bowl and swiped a finger along the rim, snagging a few bits he’d missed. He popped the finger into his mouth and tried to swallow the lump with the little bit of food.
What he wouldn’t give to be in his mom’s sunny kitchen right this minute. She could nag him about girlfriends and grandchildren to her heart’s content, and he would just smile. He wouldn’t even mind his dad yammering on about respectable jobs. Hell, he might even go get one, if he ever got the chance again.
The order to send the tray out came, along with the demand that he put his hands and feet through the slots for shackles. His hands shook as put them through the opening. Were they going to interrogate him again?
His fears died down to their usual level when he only went down the hall to the shower room. They didn’t allow much time, but that was okay. He didn’t like spending much time in the spray, but he did love the clean feeling afterwards. He shaved and dressed in clean prison garb. Done, he waited to be taken back to his cell, but instead, they took him towards the yard. Mark began trembling again, but this time in anticipation. It had been so long since the last time he had been outside.
Mark stepped into brilliant sunshine and closed his eyes, feeling the heat on his face. A soft breeze ruffled his still wet hair and sent a pleasant shiver through him. He looked around in wonder. The last time he had been out, it was overcast and blustery. He had still enjoyed it, but today was perfect.
The guards released his leg shackles and Mark was very conscious of their guns held casually at the ready, but there was nowhere for him to run. Ignoring them the best that he could, he ambled into the center of the small yard. The scent of flowers carried to him on the breeze and he smiled. It was one thing they couldn’t control. He laid on the concrete, not caring how hard it was. It warmed his back, and he closed his eyes.
In the distance, he heard leaves rustling and birds singing. An ant tickled a path across the back of his hand. He could have fallen asleep right then and he’d dream that he was on North Avenue beach. His limbs grew heavy and he almost dozed, but shook his head to rouse himself. He didn’t want to waste a precious second outdoors in slumber. Sitting up, he draped his arms over his bent knees. Soft pink petals from some tree fluttered in the air like fragrant snowflakes. The sky beyond the walls supplied the ultimate blue backdrop.
The sun shone almost directly overhead and his hair dried. He wanted to soak in the sunshine and save it up for later. Who knew when he would see it again? This week? Next? Never?
Too soon, his time was up and he blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the hall. The prison stank of sweat, floor wax and stale cooking odors. He resented those smells taking up residence in his nose and replacing the scent of cherry blossoms and springtime.
It was one of the few times when he had an idea of night and day. It had been near midday when he had been outside, and he did his best to gauge the time when he returned to his cell. When he deemed it night, he laid down on the thin mattress and pulled the blanket over his head. Between that and draping his arm over his eyes, he achieved some darkness. He missed the blackness of night.
Mark thought of nighttime in Chicago. It was never truly dark. Some nights he would go to the roof of his building and look south towards the Loop. He never tired of the gorgeous skyline. It killed him to think that people thought he wanted to destroy something so beautiful. He curled on his side, facing the wall. Sleep came more easily than usual. The little bit of fresh air had done its magic, and with his head turned in to his bicep to block the light, he caught the faint scent of spring on his skin.
“We’ve tried to give you a break. Did you notice the extra food? The time outside? Those perks don’t come for free. Now you have to pay for them. You have to give up some information.”
“I can’t, sir.” Why did they keep asking him the same questions? Frustration welled and Mark clenched his teeth as he tried to slow his breathing down. He leaned against the wall, his arms spread wide, only his fingertips holding him away from it. His legs angled behind him as though he was doing a push-up against the wall. Only he had to hold the position. For hours. The white cinder-block an inch from his face blurred into a vision of faint gray craters and white ridges. A black scuff mark marred the wall. His arms burned and when they gave him permission to use his forehead to help hold his weight, the relief only lasted a few minutes.
“I bet your friend Mo didn’t hold out this long before pointing the finger at you. Why are you protecting him and the others?” Jim tapped him on the shoulder with a pen or pencil. Mark wasn’t sure, but even the light tap hurt his quivering muscles.
The clank of the door slot awakened Mark and he bolted up in bed. What the hell? Instead of the interrogation room, he was still in his cell. His body was slick with sweat and he swiped it off his face. It had been so real. It was like one of his camera induced dreams. How could that be? Shaking, he got up and began pacing the cell.