By Hunter Perez

The interior of the cottage looked as if somebody’s grandmother was recruited to inspire its décor: frilly lace curtains, heavily upholstered furniture, framed needlework on the walls and fragile doilies with porcelain figurines of fauns and lambs sitting atop sturdy oak tables. A fireplace took up much of a wall in the living space and an ornate clock was perched on its jagged wood mantlepiece. As I just emerged from a prison cell residency, the coziness overkill came as a shock.

The kitchen was large and more utilitarian in design and haphazard in its presentation, with dishes and pots scattered carelessly about. There was no running water for the large sink, and an oversized pitcher laying on its side in the basin challenged me to figure out how to clean the dishes and cookware without the benefit of a faucet. A wood-burning stove occupied a corner of the space. The box marked “cottage food” that Patterson carried over was plopped on a dark wood table with chairs parked on each of its sides.

There was a small powder room with a basin that included toothbrushes and tooth powder, soap and shaving materials. There were two bedrooms that were identical in the grandmotherly interiors, and both had oversized beds topped with thick blankets – Merrifield had already claimed one bedroom and was beneath the covers snoring. Outside of the cottage was a latrine and a well, along with a small pile of firewood.

Patterson told me he would be coming by every other day with new food supplies and to check how things were going. He gave me a hearty wish for a pleasant night’s sleep while Holmgren departed with a wordless nod.

For the next two weeks, Merrifield and I continued the routine we created in our former cell, except now we spent as much time as possible outdoors. This was particularly invigorating for our pre-breakfast exercising in the crisp morning air, and our routines were expanded further thanks to the wider open space we were given. Merrifield was particularly helpful in the kitchen – he grew up in that type of a pre-modern setting and taught me the basics of 19th century food preparation and post-meal clean-ups. At night, we would sit on the porch and enjoy the vastness of the starry skies – I tried to recall my college astronomy classes to identify whatever constellations and planets I could locate.

One morning we were outside when a light rain began to fall. I hurried to the porch but Merrifield stayed put, looking up into the rainy sky while extending his arms to welcome a deluge. As the rainfall began to grow heavier, he tore off his shirt and extended his arms wide as the sky’s waters washed over his body. I had to pull him into the cottage and warned that he would catch a cold or maybe pneumonia with such behavior – he would do it again at the next rainfall and it seemed to make him healthier and stronger.

Patterson turned up every other day with food supplies along with an occasional newspaper and magazine, and with each visit he stayed longer, sharing the gossip from the prison’s community while offering his opinion on everything from President Grant (whom he adored) to steam-powered trains (which he loathed as noisy claptrap that dirtied the air). Holmgren was nowhere to be seen until the end of our first two weeks at the cottage, when he briefly sat with Merrifield and explained the warden’s desire for him to become a guard once he could secure a pardon.

“Your uncle is going to Santa Fe next week to speak with the governor,” Holmgren told him. “Once he signs off on that, you’ll be a free man.”

Merrifield was more confused than happy by this news and pointed to me, but Holmgren quickly cut him off with the promise of “we’ll be taking care of him after we get you set up” – which did not mollify Merrifield and filled me with a sense of apprehension because his language suggested a mob rubout rather than a judicial rescue. The next day, Holmgren arrived at the cottage with a tiny man carrying a battered briefcase. He was identified as Mr. Smith, a tailor from the nearby town, and he gingerly stood on a chair while taking Merrifield’s upper body measurements.

Holmgren promised a full wardrobe from hats to shoes, and a week later he kept his word by returning with Mr. Smith and three large boxes. Merrifield tried on his new clothing and modeled it for Holmgren and the tailor – a black jacket, white shirts, pants, shoes, boots, gloves, even a cowboy hat. The workmanship was remarkable and Merrifield was every inch the fashion plate. Holmgren then presented Merrifield with a rolled-up parchment carrying a heavy gold-embossed seal – the governor pardoned him for the crimes that led to his incarceration, and he was now a free man without a criminal record.

I sat quietly in a dark corner of the room watching this happening. Merrifield was aglow in his fine new wardrobe and Holmgren beamed like a sweepstakes winner while congratulating the tailor on his work and Merrifield on starting a new chapter of his life, adding that his first day of training to become a guard would begin the following morning. I was unacknowledged while the three men walked outside, with the newly freed Merrifield joining Holmgren in escorting the tailor outside.

The next day, a different routine began. Holmgren would arrive after our breakfast to gather Merrifield for his guard training. I wouldn’t see or hear from Merrifield for the rest of the day, and his return in the evening was never standardized – I had several dinners ready for him that sat untouched for hours until he came sauntering through the twilight swinging a lantern while whistling one of the French songs I taught him. When he came home earlier in the evening and we could share a meal, he monopolized the conversation about his training day and how he had to memorize the prison’s layout, how he practiced applying restraints to convicts who were volunteered into being his subjects, and how he was being taught to quell situations that could become violent too quickly.

I had nothing to share with him that could be considered worthy of mention. With Merrifield absent from the cottage, I tried to keep myself busy with housekeeping, exercise, reading, playing solitaire and meditation. I tried to take midday naps but I was too restless to sleep, so I would lay in bed trying to remember people and events that shaped my 21st century life. Merrifield did not seem to be cognizant of my growing loneliness and depression – he would excuse himself after our dinner and retreat to his bedroom to study a thick rule book that Holmgren provided for his training. I would spend the remainder of the nights outdoors on the porch, clutching a cup of coffee while trying to find the Big Dipper amidst the heavens.

If Merrifield was oblivious to my situation, Patterson was attuned to my isolation. He began to show up daily, often bringing a Bible and asking that I join him in reading aloud from the holy text. While I didn’t share his religious fervor, I appreciated his sincerity and would be gleefully shocked by his occasional lapses into very mild mockery, such as his wondering if Lot buried his wife in a coffin or a salt shaker.

This routine went on for about two and a half weeks before Holmgren, Patterson and Merrifield – nicely clad in his new clothing, complete with black cowboy hat and shiny black boots – turned up at the cottage at around four in the afternoon and asked if I could accompany them for what Holmgren described as the last part of Merrifield’s training regimen. I followed them somewhat dejectedly, embarrassed that I was still in my raggedy convict clothing while Merrifield ambled like a cowboy hero. We went back into the prison and took a circuitous path that I quickly recognized without any degree of nostalgia – our journey led us to the courtyard where the pillory stood atop its platform. I froze in my tracks and Holmgren offered a loud assurance that everything would be okay because it would only be a demonstration lesson for Merrifield. Holmgren ascended the platform like a triumphant conqueror, followed by Merrifield in his new clothing-acquired peacock strut, Patterson in his tight little steps and myself in a dejected shuffle.

“Trainee Merrifield,” Holmgren declared in too loud of a voice. “The pillory is to be used when dealing with prisoners with consistent bad behavior. Because the convicts brought to this punishment are among the most unstable and violent, the task of securing them in this device requires three or more guards. For this demonstration, Corporal Patterson and myself will join you in securing the prisoner in place.”

I cringed internally as Holmgren referred to me as “the prisoner.” I understood why he was using such language as part of Merrifield’s training, but it still cut me deeply.

“In a typical procedure,” Holmgren continued, “at least one guard will open, close and secure the prisoner in the pillory while the other two ensure his placement into the device. Trainee Merrifield, you and I will bring the prisoner to the pillory while Corporal Patterson will secure him place.”

Holmgren and Merrifield took my arms and moved me forward while Patterson unlocked the pillory and opened its top board. Holmgren carefully explained to Merrifield on the placement of the neck and the wrists into their respective slots, pointing with his index finger on the distance between my chin and the pillory’s slot. Holmgren gave Patterson the go-ahead to lower the top board, and the corporal scurried around the front to click the padlock into place.

“Please remind me, Trainee Merrifield, about the length of the sentence for those in the pillory,” Holmgren stated.

“Five hours, sir,” Merrifield replied.

“It is at least five hours, Trainee Merrifield,” Holmgren corrected. “There is a difference. Five hours is a specific time frame, while at least five hours provides the guards with discretion of adding time to the punishment if the prisoner has failed to understand the reason for his discipline.”

Holmgren stood in front of me and extracted his pocket watch from his jacket. “It is now 4:30 in the afternoon,” he declared. “Five hours from now is 9:30 in the evening. We will come back at that time and extract the prisoner.”

I shot up my head as far as the pillory would allow me to move and stared at Holmgren in horror. “Whoa, hold it!” I yelled. “I thought this was just a demonstration. What the fuck are you doing to me?”

Holmgren drew Merrifield to me and pointed at my imprisoned head. “Trainee Merrifield, you will often find yourself confronted with angry prisoners with an indelicate command of the language. It is important that you not fall into the trap of being affected by their coarseness. And now, we can retire to enjoy a good supper.”

Holmgren and Merrifield exited around the pillory. I was convulsing and tried furiously to break open the pillory with my anger. I began to scream out obscenities and demands for my immediate release in a voice that could have been heard by half of the country. The three men looked up at me from the ground with varying degrees of astonishment while I unloaded my scatological anger at them. I felt my face grow hot and I began to heave in labored breaths. Holmgren stepped forward, clapped his hands and pointed to me before yelling “Shut up!” I obeyed him and watched as Holmgren turned to address Merrifield, who stared up at me with indifference.

“Of course, we will not be leaving the prisoner here until 9:30 in the evening,” he said. “While we still have sunlight, Trainee Merrifield, you will need to see how to extract a prisoner from the pillory and determine he has not been injured from the punishment. And also, my dear trainee, I need to make something very clear to you. In the course of your work, you will meet prisoners who are very pleasant and charming – you might even find yourself becoming friendly with them. But while cordiality is not discouraged, familiarity is – these people, no matter how charming and pleasant, are not your friends and you should not put your duties aside out of a degree of misplaced loyalty. Do you understand what I am saying?”

Merrifield nodded and blurted out a “Yes, Sir” that I could barely hear, and yet my heart sank. Was Holmgren really using this demented charade to tell Merrifield that I could no longer be trusted as a friend?

The men returned up the platform, with Patterson opening the padlock and raising the upper board while Holmgren reminded Merrifield that prisoners should be released from their captivity slowly and then queried on their state of immediate well-being. I started to shrug my body and step away from the pillory when Holmgren stepped in front of us and pointed to Merrifield.

“Trainee Merrifield, now I have some questions that you need to answer,” he said. “While this prisoner was in the pillory, he addressed myself and the corporal – and you, for that matter – with language that I am embarrassed to repeat out loud. If you were a guard on duty when an outburst like this occurred, would you submit a conduct demerit for the behavior we just witnessed?”

Merrifield looked at Holmgren uneasily and then looked at the ground – I stared at him but he would not return my eye contact. He bit his lower lip, nodded slightly and responded softly, “Sergeant Holmgren, as I understand the rule book, a conduct demerit is filed at the discretion of the guard.”

“That is correct, Trainee Merrifield, but that is not the question I asked you,” Holmgren said with a tinge of annoyance. “I assume you may not have understood my question, so I will repeat it: If you were a guard on duty when an outburst like this occurred, would you submit a conduct demerit for the behavior we just witnessed?”

Merrifield blinked tightly, nodded vigorously and said in a louder voice, “Yes, Sir, I would. Incivility to the guards warrants a conduct demerit.”

“That is the correct answer, thank you,” Holmgren said. “Since we have all witnessed the prisoner’s outburst to his guards, as the sergeant of the guards it is my decision that such behavior should not go unpunished. Trainee Merrifield, if I were to order to you lock the prisoner back into the pillory as punishment for his behavior, and to keep him in the pillory for at least five hours, would you obey my command?”

I looked to Patterson and he frowned and shook his head, obviously signaling me not to respond out loud. I looked to Holmgren, who ignored me. I looked to Merrifield, who would not look up from the ground.

“Trainee Merrifield, your answer?” Holmgren asked with false delicacy.

“Yes, Sir,” he said, perhaps a bit too loud.

Holmgren pulled a cigar from his jacket and melodramatically lit it. “Trainee Merrifield, the prisoner’s behavior runs afoul of our rules of civility. Please lock him in the pillory as punishment for his behavior. Corporal Patterson, hold the top of the pillory open for the trainee.”

Merrifield turned mechanically and walked in zombie lethargy to me, never giving me eye contact. Patterson moved in an equally laborious manner to hold up the pillory’s top board. Merrifield moved behind me and gave my shoulder blades the slightest tap with his fingertips. I stepped back to the pillory and Merrifield’s fingers touched the back of my skull. I leaned my head into the pillory’s center space and voluntarily put my wrists into the adjoining half-holes. I heard the top board fall on top of me and then shuttered at the sound of the padlock’s click.

“The prisoner is secured in the pillory, Sir,” Merrifield said.

“All very good,” said Holmgren. “Gentlemen, our work here is done. We will retire to my quarters for supper.”

I heard the three of them walk off the platform and watched them move across the courtyard to the prison, with Holmgren and Merrifield engaged in conversation while Patterson trailed three steps behind. None of them turned to look back at me.

I didn’t yell or scream or curse after them. I stood in silence, numb to what occurred. Holmgren’s behavior did not surprise me – casual cruelty came too easily to him and he seemed to have a delight in humiliating me. Nor could I be angry at Patterson – the old man was a bystander to this nonsense and it would have been out of character for him to become my avenging angel.

But Merrifield? I was dumbstruck by his behavior. I poured months of my time and energy into getting him out of his catatonic shell and working to turn him into someone with the capacity for thought and empathy. And he wouldn’t even look at me when he locked me into the pillory? I started to cry. I was Merrifield’s therapist and teacher and coach and housemate – and, I believed, his friend – and now I was his prisoner.

(one chapter remaining!)

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