Chapter 15
Fifteen
Moods shifted when, in late June, the sun finally broke through.
Standing in front of the warden, I waited for her to address me.
“Warden Alton has asked for your library services again. I don’t like piling more on my best workers. We have so few as it stands…but I hope you’re up for the task.”
I could hardly believe my good fortune—another chance to see Jackson—and I squawked out a yes.
“I also need his men to replace some leaky pipes. There’s your library as well.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m hoping it will be painted soon. It’s been a mess since they delivered the painting supplies.”
“That’s my fault, unfortunately. The damn boiler broke down again. I had to pull them from the library and send them downstairs to repair it. But now we have the director over Corrections visiting soon. I must have everything in order.”
When I arrived back to my wing, I found Regina bent over my wooden locker, snooping around my cot.
“You’ll not find cigarettes or any hooch here. Waldeen keeps everything locked up.” I checked over my belongings, straightened the coverlet on my bed where she’d raised the mat. “And the only thing you’ll get from me is books, Regina.”
“Go to hell,” she snipped.
“Stay away,” I warned, bumping her aside as I knelt and inspected the lock.
She cursed and scurried off.
Again, I suffered a long, restless night, working myself into a tizzy, spending most of my time in the washroom with a cool rag to my face.
Waldeen poked her head inside and marched back out into the dorm.
When she came back, she shoved a pint of whiskey into my hand.
“Ya ain’t gonna be in no shape to see your man if ya don’t calm yourself down.
The guards see ya like this, they’ll send ya up to the infirmary.
Your blue’s done climbed out of its shadow and tipped into an iron gray. ”
I grabbed the bottle and took a big gulp. It hit my scratchy throat and scorched sliding down. My belly gurgled, and I clamped a hand over my mouth.
“Take another,” Waldeen pressed.
I waved her away as the liquor threatened to come back up.
***
We pulled up to the rock wall in front of the administration building, the crowing of cocks greeting the dawn, awakening the quiet dew-covered fields.
Inside the men’s prison, Officer Chandler stopped us at the nurse’s door. After she took my temperature, I was released back into his custody.
Again, I studied every face, searching for Jackson.
When my guard, Sam, paused in the gym to watch the men boxing, Officer Chandler said, “Why don’t you stay.
Enjoy yourself a break. I’ll send a breakfast tray down and have the guard bring you up to the library whenever you’re ready.
Shoot yourself a game of pool in the officers’ lounge, if you like.
I can take care of Book Woman.” He slapped his back.
Sam jumped at the chance, more than happy to escape his boring duty.
After brief introductions to the groups, we settled into the lessons. The men drifted around tables and lingered over at the bookshelves. I helped several write letters back home, but still no Jackson.
An inmate came over carrying a newspaper.
“Miss Book Lady…” He thrust it into my hands.
“Wonder if you can read me this. Does that say pole-lee-o? Overheard Officer Chandler saying the article was about it. I, er, seemed to have lost my glasses again,” he said, his hands flying over flat shirt pockets, patting as if searching for missing spectacles.
I’d heard the excuse by more than a few on my Pack Horse librarian route over the years. The prided. Those who were too embarrassed to admit they’d never learned their letters, the ones too proud to ask for the help. I know’d too well the unshakable dignity stiffening the bones of my people.
“My pleasure, sir. Have a seat.”
He settled into the chair, and I snapped the paper and read out loud the headline:
SALK’S CLINICAL TRIALS ON POLIO VACCINES PROMISING!
Jonas Salk, scientist and doctor, announced his clinical trials’ success after he used vaccinations on monkeys, numerous children crippled by polio, volunteers at mental institutions, and prisoners who received the vaccines. Salk went on CBS Radio to report his studies and…
When I finished, the man said, “That’s good news I’ve been a’waitin’ on.
I’d volunteer any day for his trials. Lost my little girl Nettie Jane to polio.
Bud, my eldest, was left crippled by it.
Me and my woman are anxious for a vaccine for us and our other four children.
Could you write my missus and let her know about Salk’s latest studies?
She don’t have money to spend on a newspaper or the stationery. ”
“Yes, sir. Let me get some notepaper and an envelope, and we’ll send this hopeful news to your wife right away.”
Smiling, I watched him walk away, then drew my eyes to the door. Jackson, I’m here. Here, I begged silently for his arrival.
***
Daniel arrived at three, and I was relieved to see him. “Ma’am.” He leaned over my shoulder and whispered, “Did you post my letter?”
“I mailed it the next morning,” I said, pausing to shelve a book. I’d made sure that Waldeen had sent it out with her weekly grocery invoices.
Daniel had new bruises and a cut across his mouth. His arm still sported the cast.
My heart ached for the young boy—the tortures he must be suffering while guards turned a blind eye.
He handed back the poetry book from our last visit. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said quietly and walked over to the guard before I could inquire about him further.
“Officer Chandler, has the mail come in yet?”
The guard looked at his watch. “They’ll be making the rounds soon enough.” He dismissed Daniel.
Another prisoner wandered into the library, and Daniel turned and accidently bumped into him. The inmate jabbed Daniel sharply with his elbow. The young man bowed over and pressed an arm to his side, the pain spreading across his face.
Furious, I stepped up to the unruly prisoner and snapped, “Rude behavior is not allowed in the library. I’ll have to ask you to leave, sir.”
“And just who the hell do you think you are, blue fly?” The small muscled inmate bristled and took a step toward me, flexing his hand.
“Librarian Cussy Lovett. Leave, sir.” I stared into his hardening eyes. “Now.” The command tightened in my throat and squeezed out. “Leave.” Immediately, Chandler appeared beside us.
The man looked back to Daniel and once more to me before turning to the guard. “You trying to jest me, Cap’n? Over that fairy boy?” A cruel laugh escaped his curled lips.
Chandler scowled. “You heard our Book Woman. Back to your dorm, Carl Honeycutt.”
“The punk bumped me first, and this circus freak is falsely accusing me—”
“Pack your shit; you’re going to the hole!” Officer Chandler boomed.
“C’mon, Cap’n, ya know Warden’s new rule. I won’t be able to have my parole hearing until I learn to read,” he attempted to coax.
The officer’s jaw tightened.
“Please. My woman’s been real sick, and I tol’ you the baby is due in two months. Please, Cap’n, I’m jus’ trying to get it done to make it back home and help my family.”
Officer Chandler wouldn’t budge.
“Cap, it was jus’ a knee-jerk reaction. Parole’ll flop me again if I can’t get the reading classes signed off on my papers.”
I fidgeted with my collar. “Officer, Mr. Honeycutt can stay—”
“Hole.” Chandler brushed past him.
Cursing, the inmate stormed out.
I stole a glance at Daniel and recognized his terror, then worried what the brutish inmate might do to him, regretting I’d interfered and possibly put the young man more in harm’s way—and now ruined Honeycutt’s chances to see his ill wife and new baby.
Daniel wouldn’t meet my eyes and ducked out of the library. In my rush to defend him, I’d been reckless with his safety. I slipped back into my seat at the small table, the guilt needling my flesh.
Minutes later, a prisoner brought in supper trays, but I politely declined, my nerves clawing across my belly. Instead, I checked books in and out for the men, answered questions, and wrote another letter for an inmate.
When there was a lull in my duties, I went over to the window and stared out at the sweeping grounds. My eyes were drawn to Chicken Hill, pained that babies were eternally resting there, never to have loved ones kneel over their prison graves or leave blooms.
Dismayed, I turned away and sat down next to a man struggling with his book. “Sir, can I help you with your reading today?”
Anytime footsteps sounded out in the hall, a fresh hope would rise. Still, no sign of Jackson.
When the last hour came to a close, I shoved the Yeats collection back onto the shelf and joined the guard waiting out in the hall, my despair deepening.