Chapter 9
Nine
I visited the Geriatrics Ward a few days later. Much to my surprise, the grim room grew loud as the women raced their clacking wheelchairs toward me. Bright-eyed and eager, they surrounded me. “Read us more about Charlotte and Wilber.”
“Another chapter.”
“Read to us,” they pleaded.
When I passed a newspaper to the officer, I could tell he was more than happy to turn his charges over to me and relax with his coffee and morning paper.
“Charlotte’s Web,” I began.
Pausing occasionally, I welcomed the women’s interruptions, smiling at their memories, encouraging them to share more. A healing from the pain and suffering.
“I had an uncle named Wilbur. Did I tell ya, Book Woman?”
“Yes, I remember, Geraldine. It’s a handsome name.”
“My prize hen’s name was Charlotte,” a woman proclaimed.
“Fern’s my aunt’s name.”
“John was the name of my first beau!”
“I always hoped to date a boy named Henry Fussy,” one teased.
“Well, I wanted myself a Lurvy.” A small woman crossed clawed hands across her disappearing breasts, lifting a smirk.
“Give me a good ol’ Templeton any day,” one spouted.
“Fitting for an old snitch,” Geraldine batted back, wriggling fingers under her nose.
Guffaws and clapped laughter and smothered giggles sliced through the glum as the women named the characters, all boasting and making outlandish declarations.
Their storytelling warmed me.
Astonished, Officer McGee stood and scratched his head.
The inmates were changing into something he had never seen—human, instead of animal. Young and spirited, instead of feeble and useless.
I hoped he could see the children they were, the daughters, sisters, spouses, aunts, mothers, and grandmothers.
Many recalled childhood tales, excited to share stories of pets, budding romances, spent youth, husbands, young’uns, and lost families.
Marigold hung back in the corner despite me waving her over, her face twitching in pain.
When I packed up my reads, I asked the guard if I could dress her sores.
Inside the washroom, I cleaned her wounds and smeared her backside with honey.
Geraldine wheeled herself in, and when she saw what I was doing, she begged me to tend to hers, pulling up her gown and revealing ugly ulcers on her flesh.
“Mother used honey for all the ails, like her mother,” she told me. “Thank you.”
“Mine did too,” I said, smiling. “And you’ll be good as new in no time, Miss Geraldine.”
“It’s already feeling better.” Then she quietly asked, “Does it hurt?”
“Miss Geraldine?”
“Being blue like that.”
“I’m in no pain. Fit as a fiddle, sure enough, but sometimes the color can feel a bit heavy… Well, like grief. Sadness.” I tapped a finger against my heart. “In here.”
“I’m blue all the time,” she confided, patting her own chest.
After a week, their sores were healing nicely, leaving only the train tracks of spotted scars and me begging Waldeen for more honey.
When the prison nurse was alerted to the elderly women’s improved health, and I told her about the healing power of honey, she quickly ordered her aid to bring more. A few of the geriatric women were up and slowly ambling about, some insisting on using only canes, their pains lessened.
Several were interested in mending the guards’ uniforms, sewing on missing buttons and hemming britches. Some even took up needlework classes the Women’s Clubs provided once a week inside the prison.
I was witnessing a glimmer of light climb to the surface as they hungered for hope and found meaning in what little life they had left.
***
Soon, word got around about my visits to the wards, and I received an unusual request.
On a Thursday evening in late May, Warden sent word asking if I would volunteer at the men’s prison for the opening of their new library.
The guard said I would be transported in the morning in a mutual exchange while several of their inmates worked on maintenance jobs here. He noted that most of the men had been instructed to visit me in the new library to get a bit of schooling.
He continued, “Warden Alton over there says the men will show their best behavior. You be on yours. You’ll need to tidy up the library if asked, organize and shelve books, and work diligently to spread literacy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, Warden Sanders says it’s strictly voluntary, and if you feel that you’re too busy with your own work to leave, she’ll just pull in another volunteer and…”
I stood dumbstruck, hardly believing my good fortune—the chance to finally see Jackson. I could barely tamp down my excitement, nor hide my rioting hands.
“Lovett, you okay?” The corrections officer narrowed his eyes. “Can’t approve this if you’re sick.”
“Just fine, Officer, and I’m happy to volunteer. It was a busy day and I’m ready to retire to my cot for the night,” I babbled.
“Be in front of transport at six sharp.”
“Six. Good evening, sir.”
It was anything but.
The sun set over the prison, casting shadows. The air grew more oppressive as the clanking keys and mournful cries echoed throughout the hallways. I tossed and turned at each little noise.
It seems I had barely drifted to sleep when Waldeen shook me awake. “You’re gonna miss that transport you talked about all night in your sleep unless you hoof it, kid.” She chuckled.
Scrambling for my clothes in the darkness, I rushed toward the shower room.
I couldn’t wait to see him, and my jittery hands fumbled with the buttons on the ugly prison dress and laces of my dull black oxfords.
***
Outside, dawn ignited Kentucky skies in apricot, pink, and glowing golds, heralding the new day and echoing my hopeful spirit. I couldn’t help but pause to breathe in its morning’s welcome.
Soon, a homesickness struck as I waited beside the automobile and looked out across the horizon.
How I missed those hills back home. Longed for the forests and pine-treed canopied paths—the choral night songs of tree frogs and warblers climbing into the hymns of a fiddle, laddering a sweetness across Troublesome’s coal-black evening skies.
The hunger for homecoming burned, and I carried the fevered hope, letting the fighting tears scrape across my throat, feeding me.
The guard opened the door, and I slipped inside the back seat as a plume of stale cigarette smoke, mildewed seat coverings, and other tired smells enveloped me. I fumbled for the handle to open my window, only to find the crank had been taken off.
In a moment, he rolled down his own, and we pulled out of the women’s prison.
I tilted forward and inhaled the grassy meadows, sweetened fresh hay, and earthy scents riding the May-morning breezes.
Somewhere in the distance, dogs barked into a tractor’s steady hum, and I could see cows gathering in a field.
To my right, horses grazed on lush bluegrasses behind white-board fencing.
Pewee Valley was pretty country, and when the guard slowed to take a turn, I heard the familiar call of the town bird belting out its pee-a-weee.
Passing through, I peered out at the stately buildings and fine homes with sweeping verandas along shady tree-lined avenues.
The automobile slowed on Central Avenue as other drivers paused in front of us.
I gawked at one sprawling mansion with a sign in front of it.
The guard glanced at the rearview mirror, following my eyes. “I see you spotted the Beeches. That’s the famous author lady’s home. Wrote all them books upstairs there, and fans still come to visit to this day.”
I’d read all thirteen of the Little Colonel series that Mama and Pa had bought me and then passed them down to Honey.
Dreamed of visiting Annie Fellows Johnston’s beloved Beeches, which inspired the books’ settings.
Now here I was, sitting smack-dab in front of it, eyes scanning the upstairs windows, wondering which room she’d written all her adventurous treasures in.
Behind us, a dairy truck blared its horn, and the officer jerked the automobile forward.
I turned, stretching my neck until I could no longer see the big home.
We passed a neatly tucked-in train depot as we crossed the tracks, and I looked back, my heart hungering for this life of oak-shaded streets and quiet.
I’d never seen such a tranquil little town. It was surely ripped straight out of Mrs. Johnston’s story books and as romantic as The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. A place of home and longing.
The officer drove on toward LaGrange to the men’s prison while I imagined the lives of all the fine folks living in even finer homes.
The towering homes and kept sidewalks became a blur, and I rubbed my fingers over the tips, tapping my thumb across each digit, peeking over my shoulder, circling, picking up speed—as I calmed myself into a steady rhythm.
In a few minutes, I turned to the countryside while my hands dipped into their rhythmic darker hues.
I lifted a palm to my face. Soon, my breaths steadied; the color faded into a pale blue.
I would finally touch him today. If only with my eyes.
Twenty minutes later, concrete-block gun towers appeared, then a single tower centered in back of what looked like the administration building. We passed by a long wall that had been quarried from stone, then turned into the prison and waited for the guard to open the gate.
Inside the building, a woman in a dark dress stood alongside a friendly corrections officer with a long stick who greeted us. My guard signed us both in under the visitor log.
“Welcome. I’m Officer Chandler,” the man said to me as he gave my guard a brisk handshake. “Thank you for volunteering your library services. If you’ll just step inside this office, the nurse will take your temperature and we’ll be on our way.” He pointed his walking stick to a door.
“Sir, I’m well,” I protested.
Officer Chandler pressed his lips together.
“Lovett, do as you’re told,” my guard ordered.
“Won’t take a minute or two,” Chandler assured, his face flushed. “The warden is grateful and has received wonderful praise about your work over at the women’s facility. We just, uh—”
“Inside, Lovett,” my guard said, giving a hard poke to my back.
Chandler opened the door, and I slipped into a tiny room where a nurse waited. Without a word, she picked up a glass thermometer and held it up to my mouth, her hand shaky with distrust.
I took it from her and tucked it snug under my tongue.
Minutes later, she escorted me out and nodded curtly to the guards.
“Let’s get you to the library, miss. I’m sure you’re eager to see it,” Officer Chandler said.
I lifted a small smile. I was more than eager to see my husband.