The Prison Inside Me Page 3

  “My daughter is thirty-seven, and my son is thirty-five. It’s my daughter who has the two grandchildren whose picture you probably saw on George’s desk.”

  “Is there any other information you feel I should have?”

  “Yes, it’s sort of silly, but when I was upstairs, I thought I heard someone come in through the front door. We never lock it when we are awake. But then I thought nothing of it—probably just George moving around in his office.”

  “Did you hear any voices?”

  “No, nothing, only some movement. That’s why I dismissed the thought of someone coming at this late hour. Then I heard the gunshot and called out without any response. I came running downstairs and saw nothing amiss until I saw him slumped in his chair by the desk.”

  The detective concluded, “Thank you for your patience, Mrs. Nichols, and for your collaboration. I hope we won’t have to bother you again. I know how difficult this must be for you. If you need me for anything or think of something that I should know, here is my card. My direct number is at the bottom. Again, please accept my condolences. I wish you peace in this hour of your need.”

  Susan rose, took the card, thanked him, shook hands, and saw him to the front door. Brighton and the other officer were waiting outside on the porch. Only two police vehicles were parked in front, their lights finally out, the neighbors gone. The door closed behind them. Szysmanski hesitated on the porch for a moment as if listening for something or perhaps thinking of a question he forgot to ask. They walked to their cars. Szysmanski said, “Boy, that’s one cool woman. Like an icicle, never a sigh, never a tear, like someone just told her that her dog had died. I mean someone else’s dog. If I know my business, this ain’t gonna end well.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Susan was born in 1948, the second daughter to her parents. Her sister, Elizabeth, was three years older than she and all but adopted her, constantly playing with her as if Susan were some kind of doll. She learned how to change Susan’s diaper, much to the delight of their mother, and even how to hold her and give her the bottle. Elizabeth loved having a real, live doll to play with—so much, in fact, that their mother had to admonish her to leave Susan alone when she was taking her naps and not to wake her up in the morning until she was ready to get up by herself. As they grew up together, Elizabeth became her protector and constant companion. Thus, Susan walked and spoke very early, emulating her older sister as best she could at every opportunity.

  Even her toilet training was facilitated by her imitation of Elizabeth, as were her food choices, eating with utensils, and every other aspect of growing up. Elizabeth’s word was law, as were her actions, which Susan tried to imitate at every turn.

  However, Susan’s father had hoped with this second child to have a boy. He wanted an athlete, a progeny he could mold into a real man, someone who would become a lifetime companion with whom to play sports, go to ballgames, go on camping trips, fish and hunt, and generally do all those things that were in the traditional domain of manhood. He mentioned these desires to his wife during her second pregnancy. In these days before the gender of the fetus could be determined, his wife warned him not to count his chickens. She also soothed him with the consolation that women were coming into their own right in lots of fields previously reserved to men. Women were in the armed forces and played all types of sports; they were achieving their rightful place in the world. If the baby was a girl, she could still go camping with him, play sports at school, and become a championship swimmer, softball player, soccer player, golfer, tennis player, or any other sport he could name, minus football. “You know, you can take your daughters fishing and hunting, and even to ballgames. All daughters love being with their father, no matter what the venue!”

  As Susan grew up, her father invested a great deal of interest in her athletic ability. He had her take swimming lessons at the same time as Elizabeth. She was barely two years old when she could practically outswim Elizabeth, who was three years her senior. Her father thought it was his interest in Susan that brought out this skill and determination. He could not understand that Susan was trying with all her might to do whatever it was that her sister did.

  When Elizabeth started kindergarten, it marked the first time that Susan was separated from her for any extended period. Elizabeth began to make friends at school with whom she preferred to play after school. She began to resist the athletic activities that her father insisted she participate in. However, Susan, now left alone, no longer the little doll her sister wished to play with and care for, began leaning toward her father’s interest in sports. When he came home from work each day, she begged him to help her learn how to hit, how to throw a ball, how to catch it, how to run the bases—whatever she sensed pleased her father and drew his attention to her, attention she had received previously from Elizabeth.

  But, alas, Susan wasn’t all that coordinated. As she grew older, started school, and played games with others her age, she wasn’t anywhere near the best athlete in her class. She tried so hard; she couldn’t understand how others had such an easy time catching balls that she couldn’t reach, ran faster than she could, and often were chosen before her when team games started. Her father noticed her diminishing coordination, which only made him try harder in their play sessions together to make her overcome her natural shortcomings.

  As Susan aged, sports became less and less attractive to her. She loved her father’s attention, but the constant badgering, corrections, and words of disappointment became quite unpleasant. She began to doubt her self-worth as time after time her father’s previous words of encouragement became more and more negative: “Susan, you’re not trying. You’re not listening! You can do better than that. All this time and you can’t do better than that? What’s wrong with you?”

  Elizabeth was still her mentor of choice. Her big sister was now in high school and spoke like an adult, even at fifteen. When Susan would complain that she just couldn’t do what their father expected of her, Elizabeth counseled, in no uncertain and very adult terms, “You don’t have to take that shit from him. Do like me. He doesn’t ask me to play all these games that I hate. Tell him you want to take ballet or piano, that you are joining the school band, taking clarinet, or whatever. I told him I have my own friends, and I don’t want to play his silly games. Mother supported me, and she will support you, too. Do it; it’s easy!”

  Easy for you, thought Susan. He has me as his athlete; he doesn’t need you. I was your doll; now I’m his athlete. I can’t do that. You’re all grown up and can talk back. If I do that, I’ll be locked in my room for a year. Life is what it is; let me get on with it.

  Getting on with it now included going camping with the family, Elizabeth included, under shouting duress, as she preferred weekends with her friends at the pool or at the club. But both girls were fascinated by fishing and the techniques their father taught them in baiting the hook, casting, taking the hook out of the fish’s mouth, preparing the fish for frying, and especially eating what they caught. That was great fun—no pressure to win, since whoever caught a fish was a most excited winner; no ugly words when you couldn’t compete at Father’s desired level.

  And so was going to the shooting range. Susan and Elizabeth were both taught to handle firearms, first with hunting rifles and then with sidearms. The girls enjoyed comparing their marksmanship with each other as the paper targets were hauled to where they stood. Both found firing weapons enjoyable as they learned how to handle weapons safely, aim them, and hold steady as they squeezed the trigger. They also learned how to clean the weapons. Telling their classmates of their newfound prowess always made them the center of attention. Like fishing, this was great fun, and it only took an hour or so away from their friends rather than a whole weekend of camping.

  Susan did make the girls’ volleyball team in high school, but only as a substitute. Her parents came to see her play at each home game. She never was a starter, but she did get t
o play a few minutes in every game, mostly when her team was either way ahead or behind. Her parents cheered loudly for her and praised her for her efforts after the games. Susan liked the companionship of her teammates, but, truly, she hated the sport, doing it only for her father. It was the only sport she played either in high school or college.

  As Susan entered tenth grade, Elizabeth went off to a prestigious college in the Northeast. Elizabeth had been very frank about her own love life and dating habits in her late-night talks with her sister. They still shared the same room. Susan loved any time she got with this mentor–big sister. Their late-night conversations covered all topics. When Elizabeth told Susan that she was no longer a virgin, that it was what all boys were interested in, and that you had to choose the one who was kind and sweet, who wouldn’t hurt you, who knew what he was doing, and who wouldn’t boast about it to everyone, Susan was agape. “How could you go all the way? You could get pregnant, and that would ruin your life. Mom and Dad would go crazy!”

  “Not to worry,” Elizabeth answered, and she mentioned the types of precautions that knowledgeable people took, how much fun it was, the thrill of it all to see a boy so excited. She said that she couldn’t wait to get to college where she could get birth control pills, making even more sure that no accidents could happen. Susan was floored by her sister’s desires but even more by her openness in discussing this with her, a taboo among her fifteen-year-old friends.

  When Elizabeth came home from college during vacation, Susan noticed that her sister had become a woman. She spoke differently; she left the house at night, borrowing the family car without telling her parents where she was going; she didn’t have to be in at a preestablished time. She did what she pleased. Best of all, she told Susan about the wonder of being out in the world on your own, the fascinating subjects she was taking at college, and what campus life was like in the dormitory and soon in her sorority house. Elizabeth never mentioned anything about dating habits or her personal love life. Susan thought, This big sister of mine is no more; she is now a truly independent woman, even at age twenty, who sees the world clearly and where she fits in it. One day I’ll be like that.

  Susan was junior in high school when she had her first sexual experience. The boy was a senior. They always had lunch together with their combined crowds, and he asked her to a school dance and then to his senior prom in a few months. It was a big deal for a junior to go to the prom; she would need a special dress, which her mother helped her choose. Two weeks before the prom, they went together to the senior class picnic at a local state park. He had his father’s station wagon to take Susan home afterward, and heavy necking started in the front seat as they parked in a remote place in the park just as it got dark. He invited her into the back of the station wagon, where he had placed a blanket. She told him she was worried about “accidents,” and he showed her the precaution, even letting her put it on him as he instructed her. She really loved seeing him so excited, and she felt the thrill of her first encounter. Finally, she thought, a man who loves me for what I am, not for being the athlete he wants me to be. Wait till I tell Elizabeth.

  After the prom, she never saw him again. He moved off to a distant college, and his family moved too. It was what later came to be called a “one-night stand.”

  Susan graduated just above the middle of her class. She enrolled at Demotte State to major in psychology. Finally, she was out of the house—no more sports, just some workouts with her friends in her class to keep in shape. She loved the dormitory life, sharing thoughts at all wild hours with classmates, drinking the occasional beer, and attending the great parties at frat and sorority houses. She decided that casual relationships were not for her, and she rejected all the men who made advances to her on the spur of the moment. She got deep into her studies, and although she continued to go to social functions with girlfriends, she never made serious contact with any male students. Many of them tried, because Susan was indeed attractive, with the body of an athlete gained under the years of her father’s tutelage. Susan, just like her sister, was finally discovering who she was and what she could do without her parents’ interference, especially her father’s. She may have been raised to be a tomboy, but she was something different now, her own woman.

  The fateful moment occurred at the end of her sophomore year as she studied in her dorm for finals. A very loud argument started in the next room. I can’t stand this, thought Susan. I’m off to a quieter place. She headed for the library, taking a short detour to get a drink at the quad cafeteria. The quad was strangely empty this warm spring day, with only a few students sitting on the steps, books in hand, all deep in study. She noticed one young man, quite good-looking and well groomed, sitting alone far from the others. She sat down next to him, opened her psych text, and then turned to him and said, “Hi, I’m Susan Campbell. I think we met somewhere.”

  The man looked at her. “Maybe it was at the big Phi Delt party last year. I’m George Nichols.” Looking at her book, he asked, “What are you majoring in?”

  “I’m a soph going to major in psych. What are you into?”

  “This is my last year; I graduate in a few weeks. I’m a math major. But I’m going to stay on campus. The department has arranged an assistantship for me to get a master’s. I’m not sure what I’ll be doing—probably teaching a freshman makeup class or two, and maybe tutoring, probably mostly athletes, who need math grades to remain eligible. Anyway, whatever it is, I’ll be here for two more years until I finish my degree, and the tuition is all on Demotte.”

  “Wow,” Susan marveled, “that’s great. I’m nowhere in math. How’d you get so smart?”

  “Some gift I was born with; always had it in school. I’m not sure what good it will be, but with computers coming in, I may be able to make something of it.”

  “So what will you do until fall semester?”

  “I’m here on campus, taking graduate courses this summer and starting tutoring assignments the department will arrange for a few hours each week.”

  “That’s neat. Aren’t you going home after graduation? Your family will be here to help you celebrate.”

  “Yeah, my folks will be here, but really no one else. I don’t have any brothers and sisters, and my favorite uncle lives in Thailand. Would you like to come to graduation? I have some extra tickets.”

  “Gee, that’s very kind. I would love to come. The only way we ‘outsiders’ can get in is to volunteer to be ushers when we are juniors. I’ve never been to our graduations. I’d love to see one, but I’d love even more to be one of the graduates!” Susan giggled.

  “Well, then, come on. I’ll leave a ticket at your dorm. Hey, you know,” he added, suddenly overcome by some emotionally inexplicable outflow of attraction for this pretty sophomore girl, “I wasn’t going to attend our prom. Maybe you’d like to go with me?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  When Heather Thompson arrived at her reporter’s job at the Trout Lake Herald at 8:30 a.m. that Wednesday morning, she was greeted by the city editor. “Good morning, Heather. After we went to press last night, the police radio reported a suicide on Andrews, some guy named Nichols. The night editor left a message in your inbox. Szysmanski answered the nine one one call. He can give you the details.”

  “Stop reading my internal memos,” Heather joked, “or at least give me some follow-up of something with legs, like the Simmons break-in or the Jay Street shooting.” Heather had been at the Herald first as an intern and then as a cub reporter, and she was now covering city news, mostly from the police blotter.

  Heather looked at the mess of papers on her desk and booted up her computer. She found the curt note from the night editor, pulled out her cell phone, scrolled the stored numbers, and hit “talk” when she reached Szysmanski’s entry.

  Szysmanski answered on the second ring. “OK, Heather, I have no more news for you today. For a change, you’ll have to work to create your own, b
ut I promise that if anything breaks on the Jay Street thing, I’ll call you. You don’t have to call me.”

  Putting on a fake hurt voice, Heather cut in, “Oh, Siz, how can you be so cruel? Not even a good morning? And all I wanted to do was invite you over for a cup of coffee!”

  “OK, Heather,” sighed Siz with a tone more appropriate to speaking to his own daughter, as if she were about to ask him for a loan, “let’s cut the crap and just come out with it. What is it today?”

  “Siz, what about this suicide? Anything there that I can spend the whole day on so it will look as if I’m doing something to earn my keep?”

  “Routine garbage. Gunshot wound to the head, instantaneous, no note, no reason, no nothing. Some old guy kills himself for no good reason. Happens every day. Why don’t you call his wife and get details?”

  “If this is George Nichols, I know him—or better, I know of him. He used to run the summer camp by the lake, working with kids who have special learning needs, mostly. Lives on Andrews, I think, wife some kind of a social worker. All very unexciting. And as for details, we don’t do that anymore. City reporting is not allowed to compete with the obituary publication. That makes money for us. Background, family, profession, education, survivors, et cetera, that’s all gotta be paid for as an obit announcement. I’ll call advertising to contact her for our mutual benefit.

  “Siz,” she continued, “help out an old buddy, even if I am a young buddy. Tell me he was screwing some old lady, or she caught him using her checking account, or there’s some hidden stash of cash in Mexico, or anything so I’ll have some copy.”

  “Hey, Heather, you’re good. You don’t need me. You can make up a story better than I can, or anyone else. Why not say it was police brutality? That always sells.”

  “Siz, you’re no help. One day you’re gonna need me, and then what will you do when I’m not around because they fired me for lack of work?”