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| 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.”
Sally Vogl lives in the United States where she retired from teaching blind children, and retired again after teaching poetry to inmates in the California Prisons.
