Page 83 of The River Is Waiting

In my mural, a number of people have come to the river and its banks. On one side, Lester Wiggins sits on a rock, fishing, perhaps about to catch that prize-winning rainbow trout. On the opposite side, three Wequonnoc women till the soil as a hunter from their tribe emerges from the woods, carrying the bow he’s used to kill the young deer draped around his shoulders. Mrs. Millman and Dr. Patel, both barefoot, wade into the water. Dr. Patel holds up the bottom of her sari so that it won’t get wet. Mrs. M waves to the men floating downriver on inner tubes. Manny is one of them, Javier’s another, Angel’s a third. Farther down from them, three young men skip stones that bounce along the river’ssurface. One boy wears a fedora, the other a hoodie. Emmett Till and Trayvon Martin are alive again, two friends having fun. The third boy is Solomon, no longer a loner but a buddy of theirs, too. Near those three but farther back, Emily and Maisie stand on a path that travels alongside the Wequonnoc. They gaze across the river and up, looking at me, seeing that I’m free but on the other side, atop the unscalable ledge. And on the far-right side of the mural, as insignificantly placed as Icarus in the Bruegel painting, Niko, my butterfly boy, stands alone, an easy-to-miss figure with chrysalis-green skin. From the top of his head, just-hatched monarchs rise to join the others in a kaleidoscope journeying south, a hundred orange and black wings against a cloudless blue sky.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

October 2019

Day 802 of 1,095

It’s Warden Rickerby’s idea to hold a reception to celebrate my artistic achievement, but the last thing I want is attention of any kind. I ask Mrs. Millman to explain this to the warden, but Rickerby’s opportunity for favorable press trumps any consideration of the artist’s comfort level. Our law-and-order governor is invited, as are several state and local politicians, the corrections commissioner and some of his staff, prominent members of the community, and the local media. Mrs. Millman asks me to play along; the reception will give her the opportunity to make a pitch for more funding for the library. Reluctantly, I agree but lose a lot of sleep thinking about the last time I was on TV and in the papers, worrying that everything might get dredged up again and stoke the outrage of the hard-liners on Facebook or whatever.He’s there to be punished, not paint la-di-da pictures on the walls.

Governor Witham sends his regrets but issues a statement assuring voters that while he expects full accountability for crimes committed, he supports inmate rehabilitation. Some of the other politicians promise to make appearances—probably just long enough to get their pictures taken for the newspaper. Mrs. Millman tells me that Food Services will provide a carafe of fruit punch and an urn of coffee with setups. Her husband, Howie, has volunteered to bake a tray of cookies. “Three kinds, a dozenand a half each,” she says. “Chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, and frosted lemon. He’s thrilled to have the assignment.” She promises she’ll squirrel away some of the goodies so that I can take them back to “the fellas” on my tier. “Are there any people you’d like to invite?” she asks. “Write down their names and I’ll see what I can do.”

Here’s who I put on my list: Emily, Dr. Patel, Lieutenant Cavagnero, and for moral support, Manny and a couple of my other buddies on the tier. I would have put Mom on the list, but she’s going in for knee surgery. Dad? No way. He still hasn’t visited me here and he never wanted me to go to art school in the first place.

Manny and the other guys get denied; the warden’s office notifies Mrs. Millman that it would be inappropriate for offenders to mingle among the dignitaries. Emily and I haven’t spoken for a couple of weeks, so I have no idea whether she’s planning to come. Mrs. Millman says she tried to invite Dr. Patel personally, but her husband said she was in London, visiting her son and their grandkids.

On D-Day, shortly before the reception is due to begin, Manny says my pacing the cell is driving him crazy. “Relax, man. This is agoodthing.”

“Painting the mural was the good thing, not this yea-rah-rah bullshit.”

“It’s not like you’re going to your execution.” But that’s what it feels like when Zabrowski arrives to escort me to the library. How many movies have I seen where the con who’s about to fry in the chair is flanked by a couple of guards?

“So how does it feel to be the man of the hour?” Zabrowski asks me.

Feels terrible, but I know I’m supposed to voice my gratitude. “Quite an honor,” I mumble. He’s wearing his full-dress uniform and, per usual, I’m in my tan scrubs. He tells me to take off the ID that, on a normal day, I could get a ticket fornotwearing. As we walk along the walkway in silence, we pass Goolsby and Piccardy out in the yard supervising the crew on their break. Piccardy is giving his uncle and me the once-over and he doesn’t look happy. I fantasize about using my “man of the hour” status to blow the whistle on Zabrowski’s sick fuck of a nephew—tell him aboutsome of the shit he and Anselmo have been pulling. But getting through the next hour is going to be challenging enough.

The library’s been rearranged for company: rows of plastic chairs, a tablecloth on the counter where the refreshments are, red carnations in a vase. The mural’s covered with three large blue tarps taped together. Like Zabrowski, Commissioner Knox and Warden Rickerby are wearing their dress uniforms. The commish’s handshake is limp but Rickerby’s is a firm grip. When Mrs. Millman sees me, she walks over and hugs me in front of them—a brazen disregard of the rules! “This will be over before you know it,” she whispers. “Just keep smiling.” This close to her, I get a whiff of lavender, a fragrance that Emily used to wear. I haven’t smelled lavender in a long time. I ask Mrs. M if she knows whether my wife’s coming today. She says she made sure she was invited but doesn’t know whether the warden’s office heard back. “Now come with me. I want you to meet my husband. He’s hiding out in my office. Loves to bake, hates to schmooze.”

Howie Millman and I shake hands. I thank him for making the cookies. He makes a joke I don’t quite catch. They’re a matched set, the Millmans. She’s not much over five feet tall and he’s maybe five-four or not even. They’re both wearing T-shirts. His says, “I Read Banned Books” and hers says, “I’m a Librarian. What’s YOUR Superpower?” Mrs. Millman tells me to go out and mingle a little. “Under ten minutes,” she promises. “Then I’ll start the program.”

Mrs. M’s right-hand man, Javier, is the only other con in tans at this shindig. He congratulates me and hands me a coffee and one of Mr. Millman’s bakery-sized cookies. I’m so jittery that the coffee jumps over the top of the cup, and when I take a bite of the cookie, it gets stuck going down. I have to clear my throat three or four times to dislodge it, drawing the attention of the dignitaries nearby. When I take another slug of coffee, it finally goes down, but everyone’s still looking at me. My face feels hot and I know I’m turning red. “Sorry,” I say to no one in particular. The commissioner jokes that he was getting ready to give me the Heimlich maneuver, ha ha ha.

After ten minutes go by—I’ve been watching the wall clock—Mrs. Millman invites everyone to take their seats for the unveiling. She begins by thanking the administrators for green-lighting the mural project and today’s celebration. Looks like they’re eating it up, too, especially when they get a round of polite applause. Mrs. M’s not a kiss-ass; she’s playing politics because she wants more money for her library. It’s fun to watch the way she operates. She invites the warden to speak.

I tune out most of Rickerby’s blah-blah-blah but catch the end of her spiel: “My team and Ialwaysdo our best to accentuate the positive at this institution.” Really? I hadn’t noticed.

Rickerby and Zabrowski are the designated unveilers. As they walk toward the mural, I feel my stomach muscles clench. Sit on my hands so that no one will see how badly they’re shaking. To make things worse, the warden starts counting backward from ten. I’m gladshe’senjoying herself in the midst of my panic. What if everyone hates it? What if all the political protests I’ve embedded in the work—anti–white supremacy, antiracism, antiprison—are blatantly obvious? Embarrassing the powers that be around here could cost me big-time. Rickerby reaches the end of her countdown and, from opposite ends, she and Zabrowski yank down the tarps, exposing the mural. And me.

I hear a couple of “wow”s, a “fantastic.” A few people applaud at first, then more, then many more. All I can see are the flaws: some of the trees are hastily rendered; the sky’s too blue. Most of all, I wish to hell that I’d kept Emily and the kids out of the mural; I shouldn’t have tampered with their privacy like that. Our story is too personal for public art. What was I thinking?

When Javier stands, clapping loudly, most of the others follow suit. I look down at the floor until Mrs. Millman, seated next to me, leans in and says, “Enjoy your moment, Corby. Look at your audience.” Facing them, I put my hand over my heart, bow my head, and wait for the applause to stop. When it does, I say, “Not sure I deserve all this, but thank you.”

Mrs. Millman retakes the floor. She tells the audience that she’d invited me to share some remarks about my work, but that, being a bit shy, I asked whether she would speak on my behalf. (Truthfully, it was more like begging her than asking.) “Howie?” she says. “You want to do the honors?” From behind the circulation desk, her husband props up a poster-sized enlargement ofLandscape with the Fall of Icarus. Mrs. M explains that Bruegel the Elder’s sixteenth-century masterpiece was the inspiration for my mural. She says how exciting it was for her to witness the day-by-day coming together of my vision, first sketched out in detail, then painted. “I’m telling you, folks, I couldn’t wait to come to work so I could see what was going to happen next!” Polite laughter, people looking between the mural and me. I look away.

Mrs. M picks up some index cards, looks over her notes, and begins her prepared remarks. I’m moved that she’s spent so much time and effort on this. She says she believes that painters and writers are magicians of a sort—that they invite us to lose ourselves in their work and, in doing so,findourselves. “As you take in Corby Ledbetter’s mural, you most likely see and feel something different from what the person standing next to you sees and feels; we bring our own lives, our personal histories, and our values to art and literature. Yet somehow, simultaneously, art and literature connect us to one another. That’s the magic! So I feel it is entirely fitting that this mural now resides in a library filled with books and ideas—aprisonlibrary where incarcerated men arrive feeling remorseful or resentful or defiant, perhaps wondering how their lives went so far off track from what they imagined. And if they are brave enough to face themselves without looking away, then this is a place where they can gain the valuable insights that will help send them on a better path.” She ends with a quote from Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall: something about how an inmate who comes to prison does not have to lose his humanity or end his quest for self-realization and growth.

“And now, Corby, I’d like to say something to you personally,” she says. “Long after you leave Yates and go on your way, your evocative work willremain here, inviting the incarcerated men who enter this library to linger over your mural’s mysteries and meaning and puzzle through whatever it says to them. Thank you for your gift. We are grateful.” More applause. More blushing from me. I scan the room, looking for Emily, but she’s not here.

Up from their seats now, the audience mills around, chatting and enjoying refreshments, studying the mural up close, pointing out details to one another. People keep coming up to me, complimenting and congratulating me, and it’s so nerve-racking that I take refuge in the stacks. Having grown up in my father’s house, I feel more comfortable with criticism than praise. And has everyone conveniently forgotten what I did? Why I had to come here?

“Corby?” Mrs. Millman calls. “Some of the media people are looking for you.”

I try to beg off being interviewed by a reporter from the local TV station, but thankfully it only lasts for thirty seconds and the camera lingers on the mural, not me, as I speak. No mention is made of why I’m doing time.

TheHartford Courantreporter tells me she and her photographer are on a tight schedule. “Let him get his picture first. Then I need to ask you some questions before we have to take off.” The photographer says he wants to shoot me in front of the mural. Remembering the only other time my face appeared in theCourantand why, I think fast and point out that the figure in the painting closest to the front with his back to the viewer is supposed to be me. “How about if I stand facing the painting rather than looking at the camera and you can photograph me from the back?” To my great relief, he says he likes the idea and obliges me.

But I’m not so lucky with the eager young reporter. She looks like she just arrived from some journalism school and is angling for a big story. “Do you feel the rehabilitative services at Yates have helped to prepare you for a successful return to life on the outside?”

The commissioner, his media relations officer, the warden, and Mrs.Millman are standing close by, so I give her a pallid version of what they want to hear.

---