The Never List

member of society. But she isn’t exactly the local greengrocer. More like your local radical feminist activist. And because that journal she publishes focuses on violence against women, she might just appear to have her own agenda.
    “And yes,” he went on, “she is articulate. After all those years in grad school, she’d better be. But in these circumstances she manages to go on the offense. She doesn’t exactly inspire the pity we need the parole board to feel. Not to mention that she has a shaved head and forty-one tattoos.”
    “Wha—”
    “I asked. I didn’t count.” He paused. “Carol—”
    “SARAH.”
    “Sarah, when was the last time you left this apartment?”
    “What do you mean?” I turned away from him. I looked around at this prewar gem bathed in white as though it shared my guilt in some way. A little heaven of my own making. “It’s so beautiful. Why would I want to leave it?”
    “You know what I mean. When did you last leave? To go anywhere. To walk down the block. To get fresh air. To exercise.”
    “I open my windows. Sometimes. And I exercise. You know. In here.” I looked around. All the windows were shut and locked, despite the beautiful spring day outside.
    “Does Dr. Simmons know this?”
    “She knows. She isn’t ‘pushing me beyond my own boundaries,’ she says. Or something like that. Don’t worry. Dr. Simmons is all over it. She’s got my number. Or numbers, as it were. OCD, agoraphobia, haphephobia, post-traumatic stress disorder. I still seeher three times a week. Yes, I see her here in this apartment; don’t look at me like that. But you know, I’m an upstanding citizen with a solid job and a lovely home. I’m just fine. Things could be much worse.”
    Jim stared at me for a minute with pity in his eyes. I looked away from him, feeling a little ashamed of myself for the first time in a while. His voice turned serious again when he finally spoke.
    “Sarah,” he said, “there is another letter.”
    “Send it to me,” I replied, with a fierceness that surprised us both.
    “Dr. Simmons is not sure it’s a good idea. She didn’t want me to tell you.”
    “It’s mine. It’s addressed to me, isn’t it? And therefore you have to send it to me. Isn’t that federal law or something?” I stood up and started pacing the room, biting my thumbnail.
    “It doesn’t even make any sense,” he started. “It’s more of his ramblings. It’s mostly about his wife.”
    “I don’t doubt that it makes no sense. None of them do. But one day he’s going to slip up, and there’ll be a clue. He’ll tell me where the body is. Not in so many words, but he’ll let something out, something that will tell me where to look.”
    “And how will you do that? How will you look? You won’t even leave the apartment. You won’t even testify at the guy’s parole hearing.”
    “And what kind of a freak woman marries a guy like that anyway?” I interjected, ignoring him as I paced faster. “Who are these women who write letters to prisoners? Do they secretly want to be chained up, tortured, and killed? Do they want to get close enough to the fire to get burned?”
    “Well, apparently she got his name through her church. They set this up as some kind of mission of mercy. According to him and his attorney, it worked. According to them, he’s a true convert.”
    “Do you believe that for one second?” He shook his head, as I went on. “I’m sure she’ll be the first one to regret it when he’s out.”
    I walked back around to the sofa and sat down, putting my head in my hands. I sighed.
    “I can’t even have sympathy for this person. Such an idiot.”
    In ordinary circumstances, I’m sure Jim would have patted my shoulder or maybe even put his arm around me. Normal acts of comfort. But he knew better. He stayed right where he was.
    “You see, Sarah, you don’t believe he’s had a religious conversion, and I don’t believe it. But what if the parole board believes it? What if this guy serves just ten years for keeping you all locked up and—killing one of you? Ten years. Is that enough for you? Is that enough for what he did to you?”
    I turned away from him so he wouldn’t see the tears forming in my eyes.
    “He still owns the house,” Jim continued. “If he gets out, that’s right where he will be going. That house. In four months. With his Southern Baptist jailhouse wife in tow.”
    Jim shifted in his seat and leaned forward, changing tack.