Chapter 4
Four
Let’s talk about Lila. Starting early seems wise, unfolding our tale gradually. It has not been an easy season to endure. The past pulls like a string.
Lila’s vulnerability shone through her eyes.
Always one half step behind, always a clap off beat.
Even at a young age, I sensed it and fretted that others would too.
It was dangerous being both pretty and poor.
A pretty face became a form of currency, a commodity, we’d learned from Mama.
And being poor, there were always reasons to cash it in.
An extra piece of candy slid across the counter, or a cut in a long line.
Each exchange carried an unspoken promise, an implied debt for later.
It became my responsibility to look after Lila because someone had to, had to teach her how to function in a world that might not look past her beauty.
Looks could open doors, but ignorance could slam them shut.
Who was I to teach her such things? I myself had a limited view of the world.
But I possessed common sense, a stubbornness to learn, and a thirst for truth.
As we grew older, we gradually grasped the limitations of our understanding of the world.
Every secret trip into town, every visit from Deacon Ridley, revealed just how much of life we had yet to comprehend.
That included the truth about Mama and Daddy.
The shine wore off, and we could clearly see the imperfections of the people who were supposed to love us the most. Could see the bruises on Mama’s face and Daddy’s evil side.
For a while, my mind tricked me into believing there had been a time when Mama and Daddy hadn’t fought, my thoughts flooding with memories of good times, meals eaten together at the table, laughter filling us.
Then it became an act of will to remember, and I chose not to.
I came to think that the memory had never been true.
Why this? Why now? Because for the first time in a long time, nestled in my motel room, I properly got ready for the day.
I woke up on my own, my eyes popping open.
I washed my face and brushed my teeth. While doing so, I saw Mama and Lila staring back at me.
I was them; they lived in me. I couldn’t look at myself without seeing them.
Closing my eyes, I brushed and braided my damp hair, avoiding the mirror’s gaze.
I didn’t dare. You can’t outrun your reflection, so you don’t look.
Refuse to acknowledge it, her, or what happened.
I woke, the dream dissolving from the tip of my brain, but I barely gave it a thought as my hand shot immediately to the TV remote.
Nothing about the bus on the morning news.
For now. Someone had to have witnessed Officer Manziel turning the bus off I-26 and onto U.S.
702. It was inevitable that they would come forward, and the authorities would realize we’d detoured.
They would discover the bodies and the one missing.
I needed to get as far away from South Carolina as possible.
I checked the time on the bedside clock radio. The library would be open by the time I got ready. It seemed as good a place as any to start.
Before I left, I used the motel-provided plastic cups as an improvised bowl, heating water for my noodles.
The noodles bloomed in the heat, their limp strands sinking into the bowl.
I ate fast, barely tasting them, gobbling them with a can of Vienna sausages.
I could have eaten more, and wanted to, but stopped myself.
I was sure today would be long, and I needed food for later.
Nothing was promised after I left this room.
Not another meal.
Not another dollar.
Not another step of freedom.
I contemplated leaving the key in the room and skipping the formal checkout.
The distraction of the game would be gone.
Even with the hat pulled snug on my head, he would see me clearly in the bright morning light.
He would notice my face and remember it.
It’s a face that men didn’t forget, especially now with the peach-size bruise across my cheek.
But skipping out would raise its own kind of suspicion, and I didn’t know how long I would be in town.
Before I left the room, I unspooled some toilet paper and took it with me for the walk.
I said goodbye to the room with a swift glance, grateful for what it had given me.
Such luxuries as hot running water and a comfortable bed might elude me for some time, and I wanted to remember them.
Seconds later, stepping into the lobby, to my delight, I found it mercifully empty.
Just a small wicker basket bearing a note: leave keys. I almost smiled at my good luck.
The library was a quarter mile away, and my route took me past Ninety Six Primary School.
This time I did smile as I mused on my luck.
At this time of day during the week, I would have an audience, a long line of cars stretching down Cambridge Street, teachers ushering kids from slow-moving cars.
Here, on this quiet Sunday, I walked without witnesses.
I considered the school as I passed. What would it have been like to attend one?
What could I have learned? Who could I have been today?
With a sigh, I crossed the street to the library.
I’d learned to read in prison.
At first, I hated the idea, embarrassed to admit to others that, at the age of eighteen, I had no formal education and that letters and words seemed foreign.
Determined, I poured myself into learning.
Alone in my cell, I sounded out letters, mastered the small words, and practiced until even new words came easily.
I visualized an imaginary alphabet, blinking my eyes closed at night with it and waking to recite it anew each morning.
Soon, I discovered I wasn’t alone. There were others like me who struggled with words and with reading. Prison holds a lot of broken souls.
Mama had tried to homeschool us. There were attempts to teach us the alphabet, spelling, and writing our names.
Back then, she leaned in to her domestic duties, when loyalty was the second pretty face she wore.
Her lessons were inconsistent and ill-planned, often dictated by Daddy’s unpredictable presence.
She did the best she could, her own education barely above elementary level.
Despite her efforts, we soon fell hopelessly behind, and our lessons became as sporadic as Daddy’s whereabouts.
The library was empty, save for two workers behind the front desk and a young man crouched over the keyboard of one of the public computers.
“Hello,” the thinner and older of the two librarians said when I approached the front desk. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so. Can I use one of the computers?” I asked, making the necessary eye contact but not for too long. My gaze dipped to the counter.
“Of course. You just need to enter your library card number and pin.”
I bristled. “I don’t have a library card.”
The librarian answered swiftly. “You can purchase a guest pass for one dollar.”
“Thank you,” I said, relieved. “What if I wanted to print something?” I handed the librarian a dollar. I was asking too many questions for someone who didn’t want to be remembered.
“It’s twenty-five cents per page for black and white and fifty cents per page for color.”
I thanked her again and settled at a computer in the corner, tucking my backpack under the table.
I had learned basic computer skills in prison.
I was a pretty good typer now, and an even better googler.
It was how I’d discovered the size of the world and that places like Venice, Italy, and Luang Prabang, Laos, existed.
It was also where I acquired my birth certificate and Social Security number, piecing together the identity I never had.
Once I entered the guest pass number and the computer loaded, I searched Ninety Six. I needed to know exactly where I was in South Carolina. The Google map loaded, and I gasped. We were closer to Greenwood—and my intended new home, Leath Correctional Institution—than I had imagined, just ten miles.
“This was never supposed to be your permanent home. You were never supposed to be here this long,” Officer Madison had said when she told me of the transfer.
“Camille is the processing center for the entire prison system. You should have been in Leath almost five years ago, soon after you got here. But without papers…”
Officer Madison didn’t need to finish. At every turn, the justice system had struggled. How do you prosecute a person who does not exist? They figured it out eventually.
Checking the Greyhound bus website, I found the nearest station was in Anderson, about an hour’s drive from Greenwood.
From there, there were just two buses leaving within the next twenty-four hours: one to Meridian, Mississippi, and another to New York City.
The New York City route seemed more promising.
This line included stops in Charlotte, North Carolina, Washington, DC, and Baltimore, Maryland—the authorities couldn’t easily guess where I’d get off, and they were all large-enough cities to blend into.
But the next bus wouldn’t depart Anderson for twelve hours; I couldn’t afford to wait that long.
Reluctantly, I chose the Meridian route at a cost of $147. 98.