The Marijuana Chronicles

Mattia’s parole had been approved. On the last class day, Mattia had stood before Agnes to thank her. His lips had trembled. His eyes were awash with tears.

Again she thought, I remind him of—someone. Someone who’d loved him, whom he had loved.

From his prose pieces, she knew he lived on Tumbrel Street, Trenton, in a neighborhood only a few blocks from the state capitol rotunda and the Delaware River. This was a part of Trenton through which visitors to the state capitol buildings and the art museum drove without stopping, or avoided altogether by taking Route 29, along the river, into the city. Agnes wondered if he would be returning to this neighborhood; very likely, he had nowhere else to go. How she’d wished she might invite him to visit her.

Or arrange for him to live elsewhere. Away from the environment that had led to his incarceration.

Hesitantly, in a lowered voice so the other inmate-students wouldn’t hear as they shuffled out of the classroom, Mattia said, “Ms. Agnes, d’you think I could send you things? Things I would write?”

Agnes was deeply touched. She thought, What is the harm in it? Mattia is not like the others.

He’d wanted to mail her his “writings,” he said. “I never had such a wonderful class, Ms. Agnes. Never learned so much …”

Agnes hesitated. She knew the brave generous reckless gesture would be to give Mattia her address, so that he could write to her; but instructors had been warned against establishing such relations outside the prison classroom; even to allow Mattia to know Agnes’s last name was considered dangerous.

“If I knew you would read what I write, I would write more—I would write with hope.”

Yet still Agnes hesitated. “I—I’m sorry, Joseph. I guess—that isn’t such a good idea.”

Mattia smiled quickly. If he was deeply disappointed in her, he spared her knowing. “Well, ma’am!—thank you. Like I say, I learn a lot. Anyway, I feel like—more hopeful now.”

Agnes was deeply sorry. Deeply disappointed in herself. Such cowardice!

This was a moment, too, when Agnes might have shaken hands with Mattia, in farewell. (She knew that her male instructors violated protocol on such occasions, shaking hands with inmate-students; she’d seen them.) But Agnes was too cautious, and she was aware of guards standing at the doorway, watching her as well as the inmate-students on this last day of class.

“Thank you, Joseph! And good luck.”

Now, she would make amends.

Several years had passed. If Mattia still lived in Trenton, it would not be such a violation of prison protocol to contact him—would it?

He’d “paid his debt to society”—as it was said. He was a fellow citizen now. She, his former instructor, did not feel superior to him—in her debilitated state, she felt superior to no one—but she did think that, if he still wanted her advice about writing, or any sort of contact with her as a university professor, she might be able to help him.

What had Mattia said, so poignantly—she had given him hope. And from him, perhaps she would acquire hope.

She was getting high more frequently. Alone in the cavernous house.

Smoking “pot” was becoming as ritualized to her as having a glass of wine had been for her husband, before every meal. She had sometimes joined him, but usually not—wine made her sleepy, and in the night it gave her a headache, or left her feeling, in the morning, mildly depressed. She knew that alcohol was a depressant to the nervous system and that she must avoid it, like the pills on the marble ledge.

Getting high was a different sensation. Staying high was the challenge.

Mattia might be a source of marijuana too. She hadn’t thought of this initially, but—yes: probably.

(He’d been incarcerated for killing a drug dealer. It wasn’t implausible to assume that he might have dealt in drugs himself.)

(Or, he might have cut himself out from his old life entirely. He might be living now somewhere else.)

(She wasn’t sure which she hoped for—only that she wanted very much to see him again, and to make amends for her cowardice.)

Getting high gave her clarity: she pla

In this neighborhood, she could make inquiries about “Joseph Mattia”—if she dared, she could go to one of the Mattia addresses and introduce herself.

Do you know Joseph Mattia? Is he a relative of yours?

Joseph was a former student of mine who’d been very promising.

Hello! My name is—

Hello! I am a former teacher of Joseph Mattia.

Her heart began pounding quickly, in this fantasy.

Getting high was a dream. Waking was the fear.

* * *

In the cavernous house the phone rang frequently. She pressed her hands over her ears.

“Nobody’s home! Leave me alone.”

She had no obligation to pick up a ringing phone. She had no obligation to return e-mail messages marked CONCERNED—or even to read them.

Since getting high she was avoiding relatives, friends. They were dull “straight” people—getting high to them meant alcohol, if anything.

Of course they would disapprove of her behavior. Her husband would disapprove. She could not bear them talking about her.

Sometimes the doorbell rang. Upstairs she went to see who it might be, noting the car in the driveway.

These visitors, importunate and “concerned”—she knew she must deflect them, to prevent them calling 911. She would make a telephone call and hurriedly leave a message saying that she was fine but wanted to be alone for a while; or, she would send a flurry of e-mails saying the same thing.

Alone alone alone, she wanted to be alone. Except for Joseph Mattia.

Another time making a purchase from her musician-friend Zeke. And another time. And each time the price was escalating.

The third time, Agnes asked Zeke about this: the price of a Ziploc bag of “joints.” And with a shrug Zeke said, “It’s the market, Agnes. Supply and demand.”

The reply was indifferent, even rude. Zeke did not seem to care about her.

She was hurt. She was offended. Didn’t he respect Professor Krauss any longer? The way Agnes had rolled off his tongue, and not Professor Krauss.

She would find someone else to supply her! Nonetheless, on this occasion, she paid.

* * *

Her first drive to Trumbel Street, Trenton. Five months, three weeks, and two days after the call had come from the hospital summoning her, belatedly.

Getting high gave her the courage. Strength flowing through her veins!

In her expansive floating mood she knew to drive slowly—carefully. She smiled to think how embarrassing it would be, to be arrested by police for a DUI—at her age.

In the car she laughed aloud, thinking of this.

The car radio was tuned now to the Trenton AM station. Blasting rap music, rock, high-decibel advertisements. Fat Joe. Young Jeezy. Ne-Yo. Tyga. Cash Out. She understood how such sound assailing her ears was an infusion of strength, courage.

Such deafening sound, and little room for fear, caution. Little room for thought.

It was thought that was the enemy, Agnes understood. Getting high meant rising above thought.

She exited Route 1 for the state capitol buildings. Through a circuitous route involving a number of one-way streets and streets barricaded for no evident reason, she made her way to Trumbel Street which was only two blocks from State Street and from the Delaware River. This was a neighborhood of decaying row houses and brownstones—boarded-up and abandoned stores. It was tricky—treacherous!—to drive here, for the narrow streets were made narrower by parked vehicles.