Page 11 of Jar of Hearts
When Geo finishes eating, the black woman meets her at the tray return. The other women from her table stand behind her, a few feet away, not close enough to hear their conversation, but close enough to react if anything happens. Her security detail, clearly.
“Are you black?” the woman asks. There’s almost a nobility in the way she speaks. Her voice is rich, the pronunciation exact. Up close, her face is beautiful, unlined and smooth, with high cheekbones. Her eyes are almost black.
“One-eighth,” Geo says, feeling the need to be specific, though she doesn’t bother to explain the rest of it.
“I see you’ve made friends with Bernadette.” The woman glances over at Bernie, who’s still eating at their table. Then her gaze returns to Geo, her eyes roving over her skin, her eyes, her hair. “They call her the Mammoth.” No explanation is required.
“We’re not friends. She’s my bunkmate.”
The woman nods. “Let me know how that arrangement works out for you. If it doesn’t, perhaps we can get you reassigned.”
Bernie’s good mood continues after dinner, and Geo is beginning to understand that her cellmate’s moods are tied directly to how recently she ate. She’s talkative up until lights-out, telling Geo about the various prisons she’s done time in, including Oregon and California. Drugs and theft, mainly—typical charges for most of the women here. A career criminal. You’d think after a third conviction she’d find another profession, but that’s not how a criminal’s mind works.
The doors to the big room always remain open during the day unless there’s a lockdown, but at lights-out the women are shut inside. If you need to pee, you have to ask one of the guards inside the booth, who are likely to be sleeping or watching a movie. Geo lies in bed and fatigue overcomes her instantly. She hasn’t slept well since she’s been here, and it’s catching up with her. Finally, blissfully, she falls asleep.
It isn’t until her bunkmate’s sausage fingers are deep inside her vagina that she wakes up. Bernie is on top of her, her exorbitant flesh spilling over Geo’s smaller body like a giant water balloon, the skin warm and moist and salty, breath reeking like spoiled milk. Her beady eyes resemble raisins in a mound of dough, and they stare right through her. Bernie smiles and licks Geo’s face from her chin to her cheekbone. In the dark of the big room, her tongue looks purple.
Bottom bunk. This is why. Easier to rape someone. It’s difficult to see their bunk from where the guard’s booth is located at the other end of the room. And to make matters worse, Bernie has tucked the edges of her bedsheet under the upper mattress so that it falls around Geo’s bunk like a curtain. If a CO glances over, all they’ll see is the sheet. It gives Bernie enough time to get off her and to insist that what they’re doing is mutual if the guard rips the sheet away. Punishment for consensual sex between inmates is a stay in maximum security.
They’re already in maximum security.
Geo opens her mouth to scream, but Bernie is ready for that, and the large woman stuffs a sock into her mouth. It isn’t necessary, though,because her lungs are already compressed. The Mammoth, well over twice her weight and three times her width, is suffocating her. Panicked, she begins to writhe and kick as best she can, but her bunkmate just presses down harder, her sour breath wafting into Geo’s ears as she touches herself. “Do you like it? Does it feel good? Get wet for me, baby.”
Barely able to move, Geo’s hand swipes at the sheet, but she can’t grasp it well enough to tear it down. She only manages to move it a little bit, enough to catch a glimpse of the inmate in the next bunk staring over. After a second or two, the inmate looks away.
Somehow, in a room full of women, Geo is alone with her attacker.
Unable to do anything, she has no choice but to lie still. Tears roll silently down the sides of her face. A minute later, Bernie grunts and rolls off, allowing Geo to take several gasping breaths.
“Nobody can see anything in this corner, bitch,” her bunkmate whispers, straightening her clothes. “Our bunk doesn’t show on camera. So all you gotta do is say nothing, and I won’t have to kill you. But you liked it, didn’t you? I know you did.”
Geo lets out a loud sob, cut short when the Mammoth punches her in the face. Then she removes the sheet and climbs back up to her bed. Geo places her pillow over her mouth so she can cry into it without being heard.
She doesn’t understand any of this. Bernie is amother. Her son’s picture is taped on to the goddamned locker less than two feet away. Geo lies in bed the rest of the night, stinking of the woman’s vinegary sweat, her legs squeezed together, terrified that the Mammoth will come back into her bed again. She takes comfort in the loud snores coming from above; it means her bunkmate is sound asleep.
Geo, however, does not sleep. Just like she didn’t sleep the last time she was raped, all those years ago. She knows from experience that it takes a while before your soul comes back to you.
And it takes even longer before your soul stops bleeding.
4
The next morning, Geo listlessly picks at her soggy oatmeal and burned toast as her bunkmate sits across from her at the table, in her usual spot. She starts her job in the hair salon today, which, relatively speaking, should have been something to look forward to, but all she wants is to find a quiet spot and hide. If Bernie was in a good mood yesterday, she’s in an even better mood today. Geo’s managed to avoid making eye contact up till now, but when their eyes finally meet, the Mammoth smiles.
Not taking her eyes off Geo, Bernie waggles her fingers, then makes a show of putting them to her nose and inhaling deeply. Then she inserts her first and middle fingers into her mouth, and sucks. The women at their table laugh at the obscene gesture, albeit nervously. Geo’s stomach turns. Before she can stop herself, she vomits into her tray and all over the front of her own shirt, and learns that oatmeal looks exactly the same coming up as it does going down.
“Shit!” The inmate sitting beside her jumps out of her seat. “You disgusting bitch.”
A corrections officer is at her side a few seconds later.
“Get up, Shaw,” he says, his face a mask of revulsion as he surveys the regurgitated oatmeal all over Geo’s shirt and pants. “Do you need to go to the infirmary? What happened to your face?”
Geo’s cheekbone is purple from where Bernie slammed her fistinto it a few hours before, but it only comprises a fraction of the pain she’s feeling. She shakes her head, still feeling nauseated. The last thing she wants is to be checked over by a nurse. She absolutely does not want to be touched. Everyone’s eyes are on her, including the Mammoth’s. “Just… just a shower, I think. I’m fine.”
“Go straight to the bathroom, clean yourself up.” He speaks into his shoulder where his walkie-talkie sits. “Janitorial in chow hall, stat.”
Geo leaves the cafeteria, humiliated, while the other inmates smirk. She doesn’t have to look at Bernie to know that her bunkmate is laughing along with the others.
She showers by herself in a tiny stall with a ripped curtain, wearing her rubber flip-flops. The shower is cranked all the way up, but the temperature never gets hotter than lukewarm, and the water will shut off in eight minutes whether she’s finished or not. Working fast, she uses her bar of soap on both her hair and her body, as someone’s already stolen her shampoo. She scrubs her skin raw with her fingernails.
