Alexander’s Paintings

I drove into the Walmart parking lot on the most humid day of the year. From inside my car, I could see water evaporating from the ground. I saw the 2001 Toyota Corolla with its “COEXIST” bumper sticker and decided to park right next to it, on the passenger side. I got out of my car. I reached for the passenger door and almost burned my hand off. I opened the door and stuck my head inside the car. I could smell melted Hot Cheetos and old Ramen Noodles coming from the cup holder. It was an oven. The first thing to completely dissolve inside the car was a red gum on the floor. I unlocked the rest of the doors and opened the back door where I saw an oversized tote bag with various watercolor paintings. I reached inside the tote bag and pulled out a random one. It was a purple sunset with no sun. There were pink and purple clouds and a thin layer of water, which could have been an ocean, at the bottom of the painting. The condition of the painting was excellent. I put the painting back inside the bag and took the bag out with me. As I closed the back door I heard an annoyed muffled voice, “Rebecca, what are you doing here?” My body froze. I didn’t think he would come back to his car so soon.

“Rebecca. You know you can’t be here. If you put the bag back in the car and go on your way, we’ll pretend this never happened.” I stood face to face with the man. The man I had been married to for almost 12 years. I took a good look at him, his hair and shirt drenched in sweat. He’d always been a sweater. The first memory I have of him is him walking uphill to senior seminar during the winter semester, with sweat rolling down the side of his face. Back then, I found that endearing.

The decision to take the tote bag was an easy one, especially when I thought about the fact that the purple painting was painted for me. Actually, all the paintings in that bag were painted for me, why should he get to keep them? I took one last look at the man and got inside my car. Three months later I was in Cell Block B in State Prison, learning to live with women who were criminals. True Criminals. Women who had committed unthinkable crimes.  The type of crimes I would have liked to commit against my ex-husband.

Sometimes, I lie awake all night in my cell, dreaming up scenarios that could have occurred that day at the Walmart parking lot. I could have gone for a misdemeanor, maybe destroy his car. Or I could have gone for something much bigger. If he was going to send me to jail anyway, I might as well have done something to deserve it. And while I’m here, I might as well spend the rest of my life here. Because 10 years is an eternity. That’s the amount of time my little Alex got to live on Earth. And a life without him is really not a life.  

When I spend too much time fantasizing on the top bunk of my bed, Jaime, my cell mate, tells me to shut up, “I can hear you thinking,” she says. “You only been here 8 months and already turning out for the worst. I been here 18 years and I only get better and better every day,” she says. She’s the only normal one in this Block. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t get on my nerves. When I want to block her out, I just stare at the opposite wall, the one with my son, Alex’s, watercolor paintings. When I look at those, I know what Jaime is talking about. About getting better. So I just look at Alex’s paintings. And eternity doesn’t seem so bad.