High Crime Area Page 5

  She’d told her husband that she would quit the program, if she felt uncomfortable. If it seemed in any way risky, dangerous. But she was determined not to be discouraged and not to drop out. In her vanity, she did not wish to think of herself as weak, coddled.

  Her university students were almost uniformly excellent, and motivated. For she and her historian-husband taught at a prestigious private university. She’d never taught difficult students, public school students, remedial students or students in any way disabled, or “challenged.” At this time she was fifty-three years old and looking much younger, slender, with wavy mahogany-dark hair to her shoulders, and a quick friendly smile to put strangers at ease. She’d done volunteer work mostly for Planned Parenthood and for political campaigns, to help liberal Democrats get elected. She had never visited a prison, even a women’s detention facility. She’d learned belatedly that her prison teaching at Rahway was limited to male inmates.

  Of her eleven students, eight were African-American; two were “white”; and one was Mattia, Joseph—(she was certain now, the name had had an old-world religious association)—who had an olive-dark skin with dark eyes, wiry black hair, an aquiline nose, a small neatly trimmed mustache. Like his larger and more burly fellow inmates Mattia was physically impressive: his shoulders and chest hard-muscled, his neck unusually thick, for one with a relatively slender build. (Clearly, Mattia worked with weights.) Unlike the others he moved gracefully, like an athlete-dancer. He was about five feet eight—inches shorter than the majority of the others.

  In the prison classroom Agnes had found herself watching Mattia, in his bright-blue prisoner’s coverall, before she’d known his name, struck by his youthful enthusiasm and energy, the radiance of his face.

  Strange, in a way Mattia was ugly. His features seemed wrong-size for his angular face. His eyes could be stark, staring. Yet, Agnes would come to see him as attractive, even rather beautiful—as others in the classroom sat with dutiful expressions, polite-fixed smiles or faces slack with boredom, Mattia’s face seemed to glow with an intense inner warmth.

  Agnes had supposed that Mattia was—twenty-five? Twenty-six? The ages of her students ranged from about twenty to forty, so far as she could determine. It would be slightly shocking to Agnes to learn, after the ten-week course ended, that Mattia was thirty-four; that he’d been in Rahway for seven years of a fifteen-year sentence for “involuntary manslaughter”; that he’d enrolled in several courses before hers, but had dropped out before completing them.

  The dark-eyed young man had been unfailingly polite to Agnes, whose first name the class had been told, but not her last name. Ms. Agnes in Mattia’s voice was uttered with an air of reverence as if—so Agnes supposed—the inmate-student saw in her qualities that had belonged to his mother, or to another older woman relative; he was courteous, even deferential, as her university students, who took their professors so much more for granted, were not.

  Mattia was the most literate writer in the class, as he was the sharpest-witted, and the most alert. His compositions were childlike, earnest. Yet, his thoughts seemed overlarge for his brain, and writing with a stubby pencil was a means of relieving pressure in the brain; writing in class, as Agnes sat at the front of the room observing, Mattia hunched over his desk frowning and grimacing in a kind of exquisite pain, as if he were talking to himself.

  Sometimes, during class discussion, Agnes saw Mattia looking at her—particularly, at her—with a brooding expression, in which there was no recognition; at such times, his face was masklike and unsmiling, and seemed rather chilling to her. She hadn’t known at the time what his prison sentence was for but she’d thought He has killed someone. That is the face of a killer.

  But, as if waking from a trance, in the next moment Mattia smiled, and waved his hand for Agnes to call upon him—Ms. Agnes!

  She loved to hear her name in his velvety voice. She loved to see his eyes light up, and the masklike killer-face vanish in an instant, as if it had never been.

  Instructors in the composition course used an expository writing text that was geared for “remedial” readers yet contained essays, in primer English, on such provocative topics as racial integration, women’s rights, gay and lesbian rights, freedom of speech and of the press, “patriotism” and “terrorism.” There was a section on the history of the American civil rights movement, and there was a section on the history of Native Americans and “European” conquest. Agnes assigned the least difficult of the essays to which her students were to respond in compositions of five hundred words or so. Just write as if you were speaking to the author. You agree, or disagree—just write down your thought.

  Most of the students were barely literate. In their separate worlds, inaccessible to their instructor, they were likely individuals who aroused fear in others, or at least apprehension; but in the classroom they were disadvantaged as overgrown children. Slowly, with care, Agnes went through their compositions line by line for the benefit of the entire class. The inmate-students had ideas, to a degree—but their ability to express themselves in anything other than simple childish expletives was primitive; and their attitude toward Agnes, respectful at first, if guarded, quickly became sullen and resentful. Even when Agnes tried to praise the “strengths” in their writing, they came to distrust her, for the “suggestions” that were sure to come.

  Mattia was quick-witted and shrewd, and usually had no difficulty understanding the essays, but his writing was so strangely condensed, Agnes often didn’t know what he was trying to say. It was as if the young man was distrustful of speaking outright. He wrote in the idiom of the street but it was a heightened and abbreviated idiom, succinct as code. From time to time Agnes looked up from one of his tortuous compositions thinking This is poetry! When Mattia read his compositions aloud to the class, he read in a way that seemed to convey meaning, yet often the other inmates didn’t seem to understand him, either.

  She couldn’t determine if the other inmates liked Mattia. She couldn’t determine if any of the inmates were friends. In the classes, it was common for inmate-students to sit as far apart from one another as they could, including in the farther corners of the room, since, in their cells, as Agnes’s supervisor had told her, they were in constant over-close quarters.

  When, in class, Agnes questioned Mattia about the meaning of his sentences—(taking care always to be exceedingly considerate and not to appear to be “critical”)—Mattia could usually provide the words he’d left out. He seemed not to understand how oblique his meaning was, how baffled the others were.

  “We can’t read your mind, Joseph”—so Agnes had said.

  She’d meant to be playful, and Mattia had looked startled, and then laughed.

  “Ms. Agnes ma’am, that is a damn good thing!”

  The rest of the inmate-students laughed with Mattia, several of them quite coarsely. Agnes chose to ignore the moment, and to move on.

  During the ten-week course, Mattia was the only student not to miss a single class, and Mattia was the only student who handed in every assignment. Though she was to tell no one about him, not her supervisor, not her fellow instructors, and not her husband, Agnes was fascinated by this “Joseph Mattia”—not only his writing ability but also his personality, and his presence. It had always been deeply satisfying to Agnes to teach her university students, but there was no risk involved in teaching them, as the university campus represented no risk to enter; there was no prison protocol to be observed; as an Ivy League professor, she knew that, if she’d never entered her students’ lives, their lives would not be altered much, for they’d been surrounded by first-rate teachers for most of their lives. But at Rahway, Ms. Agnes might actually make a difference in an inmate’s life, if he allowed it.

  Mattia’s prose pieces grew more assured with the passage of weeks. He knew, Ms. Agnes thought highly of him: she was one of those adults in authority, one of those members of the white world, who held him in high esteem, and would write positively and persuas
ively on his behalf to the parole board.

  I am happy to recommend. Without qualification.

  One of my very best students in the course. Gracious, courteous, sense of humor. Trustworthy. Reliable.

  It was evident from Mattia’s oblique prose pieces that he had committed acts of which he was “ashamed”—but Mattia had not been specific, as none of the inmates were specific about the reasons for which they were in the maximum-security prison. Only after the course had ended did she learn that Mattia had been indicted on a second-degree murder charge, in the death of a Trenton drug dealer; in plea-bargaining negotiations, the charge had been reduced to voluntary manslaughter; finally, to involuntary manslaughter. Instead of twenty years to life for murder, Mattia was serving seven years for manslaughter. Agnes told herself Probably he was acting in self-defense. Whoever he killed would have killed him. He is not a “killer.”

  Mattia’s parole had been approved. On the last class day, Mattia had stood before Agnes to thank her.

  His lips had trembled. His eyes were awash with tears.

  Again she thought I remind him of—someone. Someone who’d loved him, whom he had loved.

  From his prose pieces, she knew he lived on Tumbrel Street, Trenton, in a neighborhood only a few blocks from the state capital rotunda and the Delaware River. This was a part of Trenton through which visitors to the state capital buildings and the art museum drove without stopping, or avoided altogether by taking Route 29, along the river, into the city. Agnes wondered if he would be returning to this neighborhood; very likely, he had nowhere else to go. How she’d wished, she might invite him to visit her.

  Or arrange for him to live elsewhere. Away from the environment that had led to his incarceration.

  Hesitantly, in a lowered voice so the other inmate-students wouldn’t hear as they shuffled out of the classroom, Mattia said, “Ms. Agnes, d’you think I could send you things? Things I would write?”

  Agnes was deeply touched. She thought What is the harm in it?

  Mattia is not like the others.

  He’d wanted to mail her his “writings,” he said. “I never had such a wonderful class, Ms. Agnes. Never learned so much...”

  Agnes hesitated. She knew, the brave generous reckless gesture would be to give Mattia her address, so that he could write to her; but instructors had been warned against establishing such relations outside the prison classroom; even to allow Mattia to know Agnes’s last name was considered dangerous.

  “If I knew you would read what I write, I would write more—I would write with hope.”

  Yet still Agnes hesitated.

  “I—I’m sorry, Joseph. I guess—that isn’t such a good idea.”

  Mattia smiled quickly. If he was deeply disappointed in her, he spared her knowing.

  “Well, ma’am!—thank you. Like I say, I learned a lot. Anyway I feel, like—more hopeful now.”

  Agnes was deeply sorry. Deeply disappointed in herself. Such cowardice!

  This was a moment, too, when Agnes might have shaken hands with Mattia, in farewell. (She knew that her male instructors violated protocol on such occasions, shaking hands with inmate-students; she’d seen them.) But Agnes was too cautious, and Agnes was aware of guards standing at the doorway, watching her as well as the inmate-students on this last day of class.

  “Thank you, Joseph! And good luck.”

  Now, she would make amends.

  Several years had passed. If Mattia still lived in Trenton, it would not be such a violation of prison protocol to contact him—would it?

  He’d “paid his debt to society”—as it was said. He was a fellow citizen now. She, his former instructor, did not feel superior to him—in her debilitated state, she felt superior to no one—but she did think that, if he still wanted her advice about writing, or any sort of contact with her as a university professor, she might be able to help him.

  What had Mattia said, so poignantly—she had given him hope.

  And from him, perhaps she would acquire hope.

  She was getting high more frequently. Alone in the cavernous house.

  It was good for her, she thought. Saved her life!—for she’d had no appetite since her husband’s death, in fact since his hospitalization when food—the “eating” of “food”—came to seem nauseating to her as well as bizarre.

  Placing “food” in a mouth, “eating”—it had become mechanical to her, a learned act and not a natural instinct. (She’d lost so much weight, her clothing hung over her as on a scarecrow. But why should she care? There was no one to see.)

  But now, since she’d begun smoking, her appetite had returned—a ferocious appetite, as of a young child, requiring nourishment in order to grow. She devoured yogurt by the quart container, mixed with blueberries and raspberries (her husband’s favorite fruits), and sometimes in the semi-darkened bedroom listening to rain pelting the roof close above her head she devoured containers of crackers—“gourmet” crackers—dipped into hummus and smeared with soft, stale cheese. It was far too much trouble for her to “prepare” any meal—she could not bear the ritual of such preparation, in the empty kitchen.

  Yet it was a good thing, she was eating now. At least, sporadically and hungrily. Smiling to think I will not starve to death, at least!

  A few months after she’d begun, smoking “pot” was becoming as ritualized to her as having a glass of wine had been for her husband, before every meal. She had sometimes joined him, but usually not—wine made her sleepy, and in the night it gave her a headache, or left her feeling, in the morning, mildly depressed. She knew that alcohol was a depressant to the nervous system and that she must avoid it, like the pills on the marble ledge.

  Getting high was a different sensation. Staying high was the challenge.

  Mattia might be a source of marijuana, too. She hadn’t thought of this initially but—yes: probably.

  (He’d been incarcerated for killing a drug dealer. It wasn’t implausible to assume that he might have dealt in drugs himself.)

  (Or, he might have cut himself out from his old life entirely. He might be living now somewhere else.)

  (She wasn’t sure which she hoped for—only that she wanted very much to see him again, and to make amends for her cowardice.)

  Getting high gave her clarity: she planned how she would seek out Joseph Mattia. Shutting her eyes she rehearsed driving to Trenton, fifteen miles from the village of Quaker Heights; exiting at the State Capitol exit, locating Tumbrel Street... None of the Mattias listed in the directory lived on Tumbrel Street in Trenton but Eduardo Mattia lived on Depot Avenue which was close by Tumbrel—(so Agnes had determined from a city map)—and there was Anthony Mattia on Seventh Street and E. L. Mattia—(a woman?)—on West State Street, also close by. A large family—the Mattias.

  In this neighborhood, she could make inquiries about “Joseph Mattia”—if she dared, she could go to one of the Mattia addresses, and introduce herself.

  Do you know Joseph Mattia? Is he a relative of yours?

  Joseph is a former student of mine who’d been very promising.

  Hello! My name is—

  Hello! I am a former teacher of Joseph Mattia.

  Her heart began pounding quickly, in this fantasy.

  Getting high was a dream. Waking was the fear.

  In the cavernous house the phone rang frequently. She pressed her hands over her ears.

  “Nobody’s home! Leave me alone.”

  She had no obligation to pick up a ringing phone. She had no obligation to return email messages marked CONCERNED—or even to read them.

  Since getting high she was avoiding relatives, friends. They were dull “straight” people—getting high to them meant alcohol, if anything.

  Of course they would disapprove of her behavior. Her husband would disapprove. She could not bear them talking about her.

  Sometimes, the doorbell rang. Upstairs she went to see who it might be, noting the car in the driveway.

  Her sister called, lef
t a message. Upsetting news about—who was it—the daughter—the niece, Kelsey—an arrest—or, had Kelsey fled arrest?—Agnes deleted the message without hearing the end.

  (Only vaguely could Agnes remember the young people who’d invaded her house—Kelsey’s friends Triste?—Randi?—the other, who’d looked at Agnes with the cold bemused eyes of a killer, she’d refused to acknowledge. If he went on to kill another hapless, foolish victim, what was that to her?)

  Those visitors, importunate and “concerned”—she knew she must deflect them, to prevent them calling 911. She would make a telephone call and hurriedly leave a message saying that she was fine but wanted to be alone for a while; or, she would send a flurry of emails saying the same thing.

  Alone alone alone she wanted alone. Except for Joseph Mattia.

  Another time making a purchase from her musician-friend Zeke. And another time. And each time, the price was escalating.

  The third time, Agnes asked Zeke about this: the price of a Ziploc bag of “joints.” And with a shrug Zeke said, “It’s the market, Agnes. Supply and demand.”

  The reply was indifferent, even rude. Zeke did not seem to care about her.

  She was hurt. She was offended. Didn’t he respect Professor Krauss any longer? The way Agnes had rolled off his tongue, and not Professor Krauss.

  She would find someone else to supply her! Nonetheless, on this occasion, she paid.

  Her first drive to Tumbrel Street, Trenton. Five months, three weeks and two days after the call had come from the hospital summoning her, belatedly.

  Getting high gave her the courage. Strength flowing through her veins!

  In her expansive floating mood she knew to drive slowly—carefully. She smiled to think how embarrassing it would be, to be arrested by police for a D.U.I.—at her age.

  In the car she laughed aloud, thinking of this.