fingertips. I cried when I came and doubled up, curling into myself. He began kissing me, from my toes up along my legs and the insides ofmy thighs, over my belly and breasts, up my neck and onto my face and in my hair.
Afterwards, as I lay on a bed of bruised petals, licking the drops of sweat that had rolled down his chest and collected in the hollow above his heart, he said coming inside me was like coming on velvet rails.
chapter eight
Tension between the Tranquilandians and the Posse had escalated even further after the Halloween social, and Angel and Gustavo had also been moved to segregation. Four and a half months passed before I was to see Angel again, on Good Friday, the day Bonnie and Treat were finally to marry.
The Friday before Good Friday, Bonnie was called with bad news. She wept from the time she handed Little Shit Shit over to Thurma at the bus depot and we boarded the bus in Vancouver to the moment we pulled into Agassiz, blowing her nose, over and over again, into a sodden hand-kerchief.
A light snow had begun falling. I called the only taxi company, and when the cab arrived, the driver said he didn’t know if we would make it as far as the prison, “the way she was coming down.”
He asked if we minded if he smoked, then lit one anyway. He had an opinion on everything from Native land claims to capital punishment. He believed all men in prison were queer. He said all he’d ever wanted was a warm girl in his bed every night, and all he’d ever been was disappointed.
He rubbed the blue shadow of his beard. He said he wanted a girl with pride and femininity too. The last girl he’d taken a shine to admired women older than herself.
“That shows great intelligence,” he said, “admiring a woman older than yourself.” He accelerated as we passed a sign saying Slow Children Playing.
“She liked my beard; she thought it looked masculine,” he said. “She was a real intelligent girl.”
He swerved, trying to hit a reserve dog slinking across the road. “Now you take Sean Connery.
He’s
masculine. James Coburn. John Wayne. They wouldn’t do the dishes either.”
Bonnie let out a sob from the back seat.
“I say something?” the driver asked.
I didn’t answer. Bonnie buried her face in her hands. The snow had turned to freezing rain, and a fierce wind tugged at the car, nearly pulling us off the road. Our driver kept his eyes on the road the rest of the way, then let us off in the parking lot, as close as he could get to the front gate.
Bonnie’s throat was raw from crying. I explained to Roll-Over, when he finally buzzed us in, that we had come to pick up Treat’s effects. Roll-Over told us to sign the book while he called the Admissions and Discharges officer.
“Got two for Discharge, sir. No paperwork on it.”
He paused and looked at us. “One of you … relative to the body?”
I nodded towards Bonnie. “They were going to get married. He’s … he was the father of her child.”
Roll-Over half turned his back on us as he spoke into the phone. “No relation. That’s right—that’s what I’ve got too.” He looked back at Bonnie. “Computer says here he’s got no next of kin. I can’t let you in. I’m sorry, ma’am. Them’s the rules. I don’t make ’em. I don’t break ’em either. That’s why I only work here; I don’t live here.”
I could picture us standing this way forever. I asked Roll-Over if he could do us one favour and call Mr. Saygrover, who might be able to straighten out the problem. To my surprise, I watched Roll-Over look at the phone, as if he were about to do something he’d never before attempted to do on his own: make a decision. He picked the phone up, dialled, then, after a brief conversation, shook his head and looked at us.
“If you say so, Jack. Will do. Right away, sir. Yes, sir. I’m aware of that now, sir.”
Roll-Over went through my purse, taking apart my fountain pen and getting ink all over his hands before putting
Afterwards, as I lay on a bed of bruised petals, licking the drops of sweat that had rolled down his chest and collected in the hollow above his heart, he said coming inside me was like coming on velvet rails.
chapter eight
Tension between the Tranquilandians and the Posse had escalated even further after the Halloween social, and Angel and Gustavo had also been moved to segregation. Four and a half months passed before I was to see Angel again, on Good Friday, the day Bonnie and Treat were finally to marry.
The Friday before Good Friday, Bonnie was called with bad news. She wept from the time she handed Little Shit Shit over to Thurma at the bus depot and we boarded the bus in Vancouver to the moment we pulled into Agassiz, blowing her nose, over and over again, into a sodden hand-kerchief.
A light snow had begun falling. I called the only taxi company, and when the cab arrived, the driver said he didn’t know if we would make it as far as the prison, “the way she was coming down.”
He asked if we minded if he smoked, then lit one anyway. He had an opinion on everything from Native land claims to capital punishment. He believed all men in prison were queer. He said all he’d ever wanted was a warm girl in his bed every night, and all he’d ever been was disappointed.
He rubbed the blue shadow of his beard. He said he wanted a girl with pride and femininity too. The last girl he’d taken a shine to admired women older than herself.
“That shows great intelligence,” he said, “admiring a woman older than yourself.” He accelerated as we passed a sign saying Slow Children Playing.
“She liked my beard; she thought it looked masculine,” he said. “She was a real intelligent girl.”
He swerved, trying to hit a reserve dog slinking across the road. “Now you take Sean Connery.
He’s
masculine. James Coburn. John Wayne. They wouldn’t do the dishes either.”
Bonnie let out a sob from the back seat.
“I say something?” the driver asked.
I didn’t answer. Bonnie buried her face in her hands. The snow had turned to freezing rain, and a fierce wind tugged at the car, nearly pulling us off the road. Our driver kept his eyes on the road the rest of the way, then let us off in the parking lot, as close as he could get to the front gate.
Bonnie’s throat was raw from crying. I explained to Roll-Over, when he finally buzzed us in, that we had come to pick up Treat’s effects. Roll-Over told us to sign the book while he called the Admissions and Discharges officer.
“Got two for Discharge, sir. No paperwork on it.”
He paused and looked at us. “One of you … relative to the body?”
I nodded towards Bonnie. “They were going to get married. He’s … he was the father of her child.”
Roll-Over half turned his back on us as he spoke into the phone. “No relation. That’s right—that’s what I’ve got too.” He looked back at Bonnie. “Computer says here he’s got no next of kin. I can’t let you in. I’m sorry, ma’am. Them’s the rules. I don’t make ’em. I don’t break ’em either. That’s why I only work here; I don’t live here.”
I could picture us standing this way forever. I asked Roll-Over if he could do us one favour and call Mr. Saygrover, who might be able to straighten out the problem. To my surprise, I watched Roll-Over look at the phone, as if he were about to do something he’d never before attempted to do on his own: make a decision. He picked the phone up, dialled, then, after a brief conversation, shook his head and looked at us.
“If you say so, Jack. Will do. Right away, sir. Yes, sir. I’m aware of that now, sir.”
Roll-Over went through my purse, taking apart my fountain pen and getting ink all over his hands before putting
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