 |
| Double Portrait With A Glass of Wine, Marc Chagall |
It’s two weeks before Quincy’s medical scare. We sit in a semi-circle inside the prison chapel, reading a poem about an older person. A few middle-aged guys sigh, seeing themselves in the poet’s footsteps. Bart uncrosses his folded hands and points to his thinning hair. He rarely comments on poems, but he likes one-liners in general. “Long-term prisoners tend to age faster than the public,” he says.
I don’t know Quincy’s age, but research backs up Bart’s claim, listing stressful conditions of incarceration, limited access to healthcare, poor diet, and lack of exercise as causes.
Quincy presents a gruff veneer, perhaps his abilities have been overlooked. He’s tall, with curly hair, and carries himself with an air of self-assurance, a challenge, I would think, while wearing the standard blue scrubs. Quincy is adamant about stating his opinion. If others hog the discussions, he clears his throat and in his deep voice says, “May I give my take on that?” He groans when I announce the weekly homework but always completes the assignments.
At first, Quincy resists any suggestions I make to improve his writing, and I’m annoyed. But he gradually comes around. When he questions modern poetry, such as non-rhyming forms, he raises his eyebrows as he dwells on my response. As I get to know him, I envision him as a middle-aged college professor or a broadcast journalist, seasoned in his aesthetics and knowledge, but not old. In that role, he has his glasses cocked up on his head, mulling over a point. There is something infectious about his grumbles that I’d miss if he stopped completely.
In the outside world, he might be a connoisseur of great food and wine. In fact, he wrote an ekphrastic poem, responding to Chagall’s “Double Portrait with a Glass of Wine.” Quincy ended his poem, asking, “Shall we celebrate with a toast for two/ a twin-glass rainbow, arrayed in radiant colors/ of our fervent fire?” I saw glasses of burgundy reflecting candlelight. His words indicated an emotional maturity, an ability to connect deeply with another. But there is a reserve to Quincy: unlike some of the younger men, he doesn’t speak of his relationships.
At the next class, Quincy is absent, the first time he has missed. Perhaps he caught a cold. The following week, I wait for Quincy and the others. Bart arrives first and rolls his wheelchair to one end. Others trickle in and take a seat. Bart raises his hand to speak.
“Quincy died last week,” he says. “In the hospital.”
“What?” My stomach drops. I stare at Bart, thinking I didn’t hear him correctly; his face shows little emotion. How could he speak in such a matter-of-fact way? I turn to the chair where Quincy sits, expecting to see his tall figure, his head of curls. No, this can’t be. The chair is empty. I struggle to compose myself. Why didn't my supervisor notify me?
Should we have a tribute or a silent vigil or something? How in the hell do I teach? I glance at the others but see no reaction. Don’t they care?
Before I can find my voice, Bart continues in his monotone, “But it’s okay, he came back.”
What? It’s not like he just went to the restroom. Is Bart playing with my mind? I want to scream: What happened? Will he be okay? Restrain, I tell myself, knowing I’m not privy to that information. This goes in both directions. Prisoners are not supposed to ask me personal questions. The lack of facts eats a hole in me.
As the class ends, I catch Jules, a friend and walking partner of Quincy. He is small and lithe; sports a long black beard. I picture them as loners who’ve paired up, sharing an hour together as they walk around the track. They are opposites in build and in their focus on poetry. Jules is small and lithe, while Quincy has a full build, stands erect, and towers over Jules by about six inches. In class, Quincy listens intently during discussions of poems, whereas Jules, probably just as intelligent, is often on a different page than the class. For example, if we’re discussing page one of the handout, “Ode to a Grecian Urn,” by John Keats, Jules comments about “Ode to My Socks,” by Pablo Neruda, on page three.
I wonder about the dynamics of forming friendships in prison. The ones who’ve converted to Christianity or Islam, the most common religions in this facility, tend to stick together. Probably the ones who continue as gang members hang out together. Many inmates don’t fit in either camp. A few are married—at least they can have visitations. Others have female pen pals, often in far-away places, and fixate on a future together. On the outside, we take for granted our unlimited opportunities to form friendships. And if a friendship falls apart, we can avoid the person. That’s not possible if the former friend is your cell-ie or dorm-mate.
“I hope Quincy will be okay,” I say.
“Me, too,” Jules says. “He hit his head when he fell and is having memory problems.” From this piecemeal information, I struggle to find the link between his fall and near-death. My supervisor confirms the fall and hospitalization but doesn’t provide more details. The semester ends with Quincy still out on medical leave.
At the start of a new term, Jules is in my morning class and Quincy in the afternoon one. I see Quincy and Jules begin their walk on the track at lunchtime, and notice Jules’ bouncy steps, Quincy’s long, deliberate, strides. They seem like Mutt and Jeff from an old comic strip, with the variation in their builds. My heart quickens to see that Quincy is back. I’m glad he’s regained enough strength to walk.
This semester, we sit at a rectangular table in the gymnasium. Quincy approaches me as I look over my class notes. His walk is slower, but his posture is still erect.
“Did you know I suffered a heart attack last spring and was resuscitated?”
“I knew you were hospitalized, but didn’t know specifics,” I say.
“Not many inmates feel grateful to be here—their minds are on locked doors, razor wire surrounding our yard, guards everywhere,” he says. “One thing about me, though, is that I’m blessed with the gift of life. I prioritize breathing, walking and talking.”
Did this outlook result from his close call with death? When consciousness returned, were his first thoughts blurry or crystal clear? I wonder if he felt spiritually resurrected. But I don’t ask.
“A big welcome back,” I say. I’m grateful that he recovered and is still part of the class. Of course, that’s a selfish thought.
“So glad you’re on the mend.” Afraid I’m looking too intently at him, the only person I’ve ever met who has died and been resuscitated, I shift my gaze to my paperwork. Did I expect his frame to look different, more translucent or ghostly? Quincy seems more subdued since his medical incident, but he remains dedicated to his poetry and still offers constructive comments to others. I’m still digesting Quincy’s words and barely notice Jules, who has arrived and sits on my side of the table.
Week four begins like weeks two and three, with Jules spinning into the seat next to me. While discussing a poem, I sense movement on my left. Since Jules is the only one on my side of the table, others don’t see him spread his legs and bring his hands to his pubic area. His engorged penis shoots through his fly, out of his blue scrubs.
I gasp. Frozen in disbelief, I can’t move. Heaviness takes over my legs, my arms, my torso. I forget to use the alarm in my fanny pack.
“You, you need to stop,” I say. Although not physically harmed, I scan my body to confirm it’s okay. Why do I feel terror? The kind that knots my stomach. I’m breathing like a tired dog.
Teacher training—keep the momentum going for the other students—kicks in. I think I can continue with the class. But I can’t hold a coherent thought. How can I discuss a poem?
I remember the chaplain’s office and start in that direction. Jules catches up.
“Please don’t report me,” he says. “They’ll send me to the hole.” I feel sympathy for a nano-second, thinking of alternative actions, like banning him from class, but his word, “report” brings me back to reality. Of course, I’m a mandatory reporter. No negotiating.
Then I escape, probably pale-faced, and ask the chaplain to call an officer. Jules slithers outside, soon to be intercepted by correctional officers.
The following week, Quincy catches up with me as I make my way to the gym. Inmates on the yard, clad in white t-shirts, do push-ups, revealing their toned biceps.
“Ma’am?”
“What is it, Quincy?”
“Jules is gone. Reassigned.” I nod. “I understand that you had to report him.” I look away from his sad eyes. “But, he’s my friend. Now, I may never see him again.” He pauses. “I’m dropping the class because my heart isn’t in it anymore.”
I clasp my hands to steady them. “You survived a near death experience, Quincy. I thought we had you back.” He shakes his head. Damn you Jules, I say under my breath.
I have to respect Quincy’s wishes. “I’m sorry to lose you,” I say.
I’ll miss this thoughtful man, his protests, his poems, his raised eyebrows. “Thanks for telling me.”
