“I’ll talk to the foreman,” Gimpy said, and swung away with his uneven, rolling gait. Lee stood looking after him; a lot of years had gone by, but Gimpy was still the same. Lee turned away, smiling, heading back to his cell, thinking about the old days.
He was moving along the narrow third-tier catwalk when a man came out of a cell walking slowly, his eyes fixed on the pages of an open book. He was heavy boned, prison pale but built like a barrel, was dressed not in prison blue but in the white pants and white shirt worn in the kitchen, the whiteness stark against the thick black hair on his arms. Lee stepped to one side to let him pass. “I guess we’re neighbors.”
The dark-eyed man smiled. “Al Bronski. I saw you come in last night.”
“Lee Fontana.”
“You looked bushed yesterday. Still feel a little pale?”
“It’s a long pull from Springfield. What are we having for the noon meal?”
“Beef stew and French bread.”
“Sounds good. If I get bored with the routine, are there any jobs in the kitchen?”
“Always use help in the kitchen,” Bronski said. “See me when you’re ready.”
Lee thought he might like the relative quiet of the kitchen better than the noise of the cotton mill, but he’d like to work with Gimpy. Behind Bronski, coming along the catwalk headed for the stairs, were the two men from breakfast this morning, the dark-haired one in the lead, his face frozen in the same pinched scowl, his black eyes fixed on Lee. Behind him, the blond man’s masklike face and pale eyes telegraphed a malice that Lee knew too well. They didn’t move over for Lee and Bronski. When Lee stepped aside on the narrow catwalk to let them pass, the dark man elbowed him against the rail. “Ain’t no place for a gab fest.”
Bronski stiffened and reached for him. The man sidestepped, rounding on Bronski. Bronski crouched, waiting—but a guard shouted from the main floor, and he drew back. The two men pushed on past, pressing them both to the rail and giving them the finger.
“Their cells are down beyond yours,” Bronski said, watching the two swagger away along the catwalk. “The dark one’s Fred Coker. The blond is Sam Delone. There’s been more than one knifing involving those two.”
Lee kept the two in sight until they disappeared down the stairs and outside. He watched Bronski amble along behind them, reading again, then Lee moved on to his cell. Swept by a wave of exhaustion, he lay down on his bunk. Nobody had to spell it out for him. He was back in a big joint, crazy hotheads around him. And more than hotheads, too, with the shadow that fit so easily among Coker and his kind. As much as he’d admired his grandpappy, he wished Russell had never bargained with the devil, wished that in that one instance Russell had backed off and turned away.
The position he was in now, Lee thought, it was time to get himself a weapon. It was one thing to be threatened by prison scum when you were young and strong, when you could handle a battle bare-handed. It was different this late in life, when every move was an effort, when in every threat you saw the face of defeat. Suddenly cold, pulling the blanket over him, bleak and alone, he felt the weight of the ghost cat hit the bed, crowding against him purring like a small engine. He almost laughed when the ghost cat clawed the mattress, licked Lee’s hand with his rough tongue, and said softly, “Screw Coker. Screw Delone. There’s more to this prison, Lee, than you yet know.”
“What? What are you getting at?” But Lee felt the cat curl up as if he’d tucked his head under, and in a moment the ghost was softly snoring. Lee smiled, turned over easy so as not to disturb him, and soon they both slept, Lee drifting off to Misto’s rumbling purr, soothed in his apprehension of the days to come.
9
DRIVING SOUTH TO the Atlanta Penitentiary to visit Morgan for the first time, Becky made herself sick thinking every ugly thought about his life inside, so upsetting herself that her driving was off. Twice, passing another car on the two-lane highway, she had to swerve fast into a tight space to avoid hitting an oncoming vehicle. She felt as if she was turning into one of those women so ruled by sick nerves they couldn’t do anything right.
Coming into Atlanta, where they would be moving in a few days, driving down Peachtree and on south through mixed commercial and small cottages, she was shaky, her hands unsteady on the wheel. When she drew into the parking area outside the prison wall she sat in the car for a long time trying to pull herself together. She felt so nauseous she was afraid if she went in she’d be sick in the visiting room.
Thinking about leaving Rome didn’t help, about leaving Caroline, thinking how much she depended on her mother—to take care of Sammie, but most of all to be there for them. Caroline was her friend, her best friend except for Morgan. Life was shattered without Morgan and now would be more empty still without Caroline nearby.
But at least living in Atlanta she’d be closer to Morgan, not an all-day trip to visit him. She and Sammie could run over to the prison in just a few minutes, she thought bitterly, just swing by the prison after school like any mother and child.
She got out of the car at last, feeling the stare of the guards from their towers. They would be wondering why she’d sat there for so long. Would they call down for extra security measures because she seemed suspicious? Her neck prickling from their stares, she hurried up the walk, up the steps. She pressed a buzzer, waited for the lock to click, and pushed through the iron door into a six-foot-square sally port, bars and heavy glass trapping her in the small space.
Through the slot in a thick glass barrier she told the guard her name and Morgan’s name. A second guard stepped out of the glassed area, a tall, pale-haired man who asked for her purse. She watched, embarrassed, as he searched around a pack of tampons. Satisfied she wasn’t carrying a weapon he handed it back and motioned her through a door into the prison’s visiting room.
The room didn’t look anything like part of a prison, was far more welcoming than she had expected: tan tweed carpeting, white walls, beige couches, and soft chairs set about in little groups. Half of the seating was already occupied, wives and children, elderly couples, each group gathered around an inmate dressed in prison blue. Most of the men were somber and withdrawn even among their friends and family. One man was so emotional, hugging his wife and children, he was almost in tears. Only two of the prisoners seemed relaxed and at home, chatting away, one man holding two little boys on his lap. She chose an empty couch, stood beside it watching an inner door where Morgan would most likely enter.
What would they talk about? For the first time in their lives she couldn’t be open with him. She didn’t want to tell him about her aborted effort to question Natalie Hooper. She was so sorry she’d done that. And she didn’t dare tell him how Falon had come to Caroline’s and gone after Sammie.
She didn’t understand Falon. If he wanted her, Becky, as he’d always said, why did he go after Sammie? Caroline said he showed psychopathic tendencies; Becky had to agree but the thought terrified her. She could cope with a normal person, but how did you deal with a psychopath?
She couldn’t tell Morgan about this morning at work, before she left for Atlanta. Couldn’t tell him that Falon had cornered her in the storeroom of Rome Hardware as she was getting together the bills to do their books. He must have waited hidden behind the shelves of stock as she came in. She was standing at an open file drawer when he grabbed her from behind and backed her against the shelves, his voice a low whisper.
“Keep your mouth shut, I can hurt you bad.” His slimy tone sickened her. “You haven’t any man in your bed now, Becky.”
She came alive, kicking him and shouting. He slapped his hand over her mouth. She bit him so hard he grunted and slapped her again, harder. She yelled louder, so the clerks up front had to hear her. “Get out of here! Help! Help me!” When footsteps came pounding he slammed her against the wall, spun away, and was gone, vanishing between the shelves. She heard the back door open and scrape closed, heard the latch click.
The storeroom was empty, only her fear remained.<
br />
She had gotten through the confusion with the two clerks and the assistant manager who came running in, had fielded their questions, begged them not to call the police. She’d said she didn’t know who the man was. The Rome police would do nothing to help her, she couldn’t handle their patronization, and she didn’t want Falon’s added rage if she filed a report on him. When she’d mollified the staff, calmed them down, she’d hurried home to Caroline’s to change clothes, to head for Atlanta.
When she told Caroline what had happened, her mother said, “That settles it. You’ll have to move down to Anne’s.”
“But—”
“I talked with her this morning. She was—”
“She doesn’t want us, Mama.”
“Let’s say she was reluctant. She’ll get over it. You have to go, as soon as you can, at least until you find an apartment. As long as you’re here Falon won’t leave you alone, won’t leave Sammie alone.”
Caroline put her arm around Becky. “Anne will soften up once you’re settled in. Once she gets to know you better, and gets to know Sammie.”
Becky said nothing more. This plan would have to do for the moment.
“We can trade cars,” Caroline said, “I keep mine in the garage, he can’t see in there. I always drive the van. I’ll leave your car out, park it in different parts of the drive so he knows it’s being used.”
“It will take me a while to wrap up my accounts,” Becky said, “to give notice and pack a few things.” The thought of moving in with Anne unwanted wasn’t pleasant, she felt like a charity case.
“When you’re ready, we’ll pack the car at night and you can leave before dawn. You said Natalie and Falon sleep late?”
Becky nodded. “I think so, as much as I can tell from the street.” She’d driven by Natalie’s apartment several mornings, looking up at the windows. The curtains were never open until mid-morning, and twice when she drove by at midnight she’d seen the living room and kitchen lights burning. Maybe she could slip away before daylight without Falon knowing.
NOW SHE WATCHED the door into the visiting room open, repeatedly letting other prisoners through, but all were strangers. She watched openly as inmates, each with a black identification number stenciled on his shirt, were hugged and kissed and made over. She needed Morgan to comfort and hold her; and she couldn’t imagine how lost he felt, lost and alone. She didn’t want to think what his life was like within these high, cold walls.
She’d promised herself she’d tell him only hopeful things, that she’d make the move to Atlanta sound like exciting news: She’d be near the prison, she could come every visiting day. If she found a lawyer in Atlanta it would be easier to see him often. But she’d have to lie to him, tell him Anne had invited her. Of course he’d ask questions; he knew the cool relationship between Anne and Caroline. Maybe she could distract him with the four Atlanta attorneys she’d seen this week. She’d leave the best one for last, she thought, smiling.
When a guard ushered Morgan in, for an instant she didn’t recognize him: another reserved figure in prison blues, his eyes cast down, his face expressionless, his hands limp at his sides, his walk stilted as if every ounce of fight had been taken from him.
Or was this rage she was seeing? Confined, bottled-up rage? As if even the smallest movement might stir a violence of rebellion that he dare not unleash? She stood looking, then ran across the big room, flinging herself at him. They held each other close, Morgan’s face against hers, then kissing her neck, her hair, coming alive again. It was all right now, they were together.
Morgan held her away, searching her face. “I was afraid you’d bring Sammie. Does she know you’re here?”
“I didn’t tell her. She’s with Mama. I don’t think she’s ready to come but she would have insisted. She’s still so upset, I wanted to give her more time.”
Ever since Sammie had run from Falon into the bushes she had slept badly, had had nightmares that she wouldn’t talk about, and during most of the day was quiet and withdrawn. Only in the mornings did she seem easier. She would appear from the bedroom after Becky was up, relaxed and sunny and willing to smile. As if something about that last sleep strengthened her, as if her predawn dreams were happy ones. This morning Becky had heard her in her room talking to herself or maybe to her imaginary playmate. Whatever Sammie had found to comfort her was surely needed now.
Sitting on the couch, Morgan’s arm around Becky, comforted by their closeness, they didn’t talk for a long while. Becky wanted to know what it was like inside but she couldn’t ask. She prayed he wouldn’t ask how her work was going. She’d lost so many of her accounts that if she didn’t find a job in Atlanta she’d have to sell the house to hire a new attorney and to rid herself of the mortgage payments. Even some of her oldest bookkeeping jobs had gone sour, so many people believing Morgan guilty had turned against them. She’d lost more than half her customers, though the folks at the hardware had remained loyal. And business at the automotive shop was no better.
She told Morgan that her work and work at the shop were just fine. She hated lying to him. As natural and upbeat as she tried to be, no color returned to his face, no laughter to his eyes. He didn’t brighten when she told him about the four Atlanta lawyers, though he listened carefully, trying to assess each. She had so wanted to find a man she could have confidence in, someone sympathetic but capable and strong, who would give them hope.
“I think,” she said, “Quaker Lowe might be the man. He didn’t sit tapping his fingers on the desk or making lengthy notes on a legal pad as the others did. He focused on me, he really listened to me.”
Lowe was a florid, square-faced man, big and rangy. Wide hands, like a farmer, his suit and white shirt limp from the heat, an active-looking man who seemed out of place in his cramped office. But his blue eyes showed a keen intelligence and, deep down, an easy wit. From the moment she sat down facing him across his desk she had liked him. “He took in what I had to say, all the details of Falon’s setup. I told him about the witnesses, recalled as much of the testimony as I could.
“He said he was booked solid with court cases but he’d do his best to rearrange his schedule, said his assistant would handle some of the court work. He seemed . . . as if he wanted to help. I didn’t get that from the other three.
“He said that if he could take the case he’d come up to Rome within the week and go through the court records.” She laid her hand over Morgan’s. “He really listened, Morgan. He . . . I think he might really care about how you’ve been treated.”
She knew there was only a slim chance that Lowe would have time for them, but it was all they had. She prayed with every breath that he would make the time; she didn’t let herself think that Quaker Lowe would let them down.
Snuggling close to Morgan she knew that the longer they were apart the more difficult it would be to talk, the more different their lives would become, the less they would have to share. Morgan absorbed into the regimen of prison life, she struggling to keep them financially afloat, trying to keep Sammie safe, trying to appease an aunt who didn’t want them in her house. The one thing they had to share, besides Sammie herself, was the appeal.
When she told Morgan they’d be moving to Atlanta, that Aunt Anne had invited them, he knew she was leaving out half the story but he didn’t push her. He said he was glad she’d be near and wouldn’t have to make the long drive, and he left it at that. This wasn’t pleasant for either of them, this tiptoeing around a subject; it made her feel as stiff as a stranger. Nor did she mention Sammie’s continuing dreams of the cowboy—those parts of the dreams Sammie was willing to share with her.
She longed to tell him the dream from the previous night, which Sammie had shared; she wanted Morgan’s response. But somehow, she was wary of that response. It was two in the morning when Sammie sat straight up in bed, wide awake, not screaming with fear but instead solemn and demanding. “Mama! Mama!”
Becky had turned on a light and drawn Sammie close.
The child wasn’t afraid, she was quiet and composed, her dark eyes serious. “He’s here, Mama. The cowboy is here. He’s in the prison, he’s behind the wall with Daddy.”
Becky had visualized the thin, leathery old man Sammie had once described. She hadn’t known what to make of the dream, this one couldn’t be real. Yet she never took Sammie’s dreams lightly; they were not to be brushed aside.
“He came to help Daddy, help him get out of that place, help him come home again.” Becky told herself this was a fantasy, how could it be anything else? It was nothing like Sammie’s dreams of the believable though painful events one might expect from life, the death of Sammie’s puppy, the courthouse fire.
But what about that last terrible nightmare where Morgan was locked in the Rome jail? They had known that was a fantasy, dark and impossible. And that nightmare had come true in all its terror and ugliness. Now, sitting close to Morgan, she knew she had to tell him, to share one more disturbing vision.
She described Sammie’s waking, so different from other nightmares. “She woke so alert, more certain than with anything she’s ever experienced. She kept repeating, ‘He’s here. He’s here to help Daddy. The cowboy’s here to help Daddy get away, help Daddy prove who robbed that bank and then Daddy will go free.’”
Morgan said nothing, he sat looking at Becky trying to take a matter-of-fact approach. Over the years Sammie’s predictions had made a believer of him, but how could this dream ever be based in fact? This fanciful idea was impossible. He said, “I haven’t noticed anyone like Sammie described. No thin wrinkled old con who walks bowlegged. Maybe this time, maybe it is just a dream.” But somewhere in Morgan’s heart a web of hope had begun to gather, a shadow of promise to weave itself into his thoughts, ready to spring to life.
10
The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape Page 7