by Salome Wilde
I was fucked, and I had no one to blame but myself. I had trusted Kitt, which was the stupidest thing in the world because she’d given me exactly nothing. She’d strung me along, her dirty little secret, and I’d handed her everything.
My secrets. My reputation. My future.
And now I had also lost my freedom.
I didn’t recognize the woman who sat in the courtroom at my trial, huddled close to her husband, saying in a halting voice that I had stalked and terrified her so much she couldn’t leave her house. The woman in my bed had been nothing like that woman. I couldn’t comprehend the police reports her lawyer read aloud to the court. I didn’t know who had done those things. It couldn’t have been me.
After sentencing, I’d been passed through security like a dirty napkin and deposited in a holding cell. I’d been unceremoniously stripped of my dignity. All because of her. By the time I reached my more permanent “home,” I was determined never to let another woman under my skin.
You hear a lot of things about prison, so you think you know what to expect. It’s both everything and exactly nothing like you’d imagine. When you internalize the horrible, menacing click of those automatic locks and find yourself for the very first time in your life completely at the mercy of people who don’t give one fuck about you, you aren’t prepared. When you can’t even hear yourself crying at night because the woman below you is whimpering and three other women down the hall are sobbing and someone who’s been there four months or eighteen months or six years can’t stand to hear it anymore and screams bloody murder for everyone to just shut the fuck up for the love of God, you wonder what strata of human existence you’ve been buried in.
And, more than ever, what you crave is connection.
I had no one when I went in, not really, but I’d had employees I spoke to every day and neighbors to say good morning to. Toward the end, I’d had my lawyer, which was better than nothing. Now I had no one at all.
I floated through my days, as polite as close quarters required, never making any real friends. I just didn’t have it in me. It was as if Kitt had sucked every bit of caring energy out of me. She’d taken away my ability to smile, to joke, even to taste. Knowing the joy I’d last experienced in her arms was never coming back had hurt me. Her betrayal in court had ruined me.
I was given a job. I threw myself into it. I was in charge of picking up the yard, which seemed okay at first, except we were in a windy area and litter blew in from miles around, making yard cleaning a constant task. No sooner had I gone out with my gloves and trash bag than four thousand more empty potato chip bags and bits of newspaper flapping against the fence mocked my previous efforts.
To make matters worse, the vicious wind coming off the lake seemed to wait until I was good and tired before it blasted down my neck and seized my canvas-clad fingers. I’d requested insulated gloves, but no one was in any great hurry to get them to me. It was the apathy I’d come to know over the weeks I’d been incarcerated.
A month or so after my arrival, I was cleaning on a particularly bitter morning. We’d had a dusting of snow overnight and that morning there was more trash than ever blowing around. Between power clean-up bursts, I huddled in the greenhouse to warm my numb hands, breathing in the aroma of earth and the few mums that still lingered on the tables, waiting for someone to deadhead them.
“Those gloves are shit.”
I heard it before she came into view—the smooth, clear, baritone voice of Danica Hayden, or Dan, as she was known. On the warden’s order, the guards were adamant about using our first names here because they wanted to emphasize that our facility was more rehabilitative than punitive. Out of simple rebellion, the women called each other by last names. First names were only ever used mockingly to address another prisoner, except in Dan’s case. No one ever referred to her as “Danica,” nor did they call her by her last name, Hayden. She was just Dan.
Although I rarely talked, I did listen. I knew why almost everyone on our block was there. My roommate, for example, was a home health aide who stole from her elderly patients. The woman next to us had accidentally backed over her neighbor’s child while pulling out of her driveway. The crimes were varied and common knowledge, but I had never heard one word about why Dan was locked up with the rest of us.
A seemingly model prisoner who was treated respectfully by the guards, Dan was polite to everyone but managed to remain aloof, friendly only with an intimate group of slightly older women. And yet she transcended speculative gossip, which was nothing short of a miracle in our microcosm. My bunkmate told me Dan had flown rescue helicopters in Afghanistan. Perhaps that’s why the guards respected her and the other women exempted her from their petty gossip. Or perhaps it was simply her calm demeanor and complete disinterest in their juvenile drama that kept her from being a target. Whatever it was, I got the sense that she had always been the kind of person whom others looked up to.
What I knew about her consisted of snippets of information collected with an eye for detail that was both my gift and, more recently, my undoing. She was left-handed and drank her coffee black. She attended AA meetings every morning and jogged laps around the yard while the others huddled along the fence, frantically sucking down cigarettes, or gathered in clucking groups at the picnic tables with their friends. She got a regular mail but had no photos taped above her bed.
And God, she was hot. She was a bit taller than me, with the kind of jaunty, compact body usually reserved for serious athletes. Her self-assured swagger told me she’d been a woman in charge on the outside, and my cellmate’s assertion that she was ex-military was further suggested by her close-cropped salt and pepper hair. Then there were her eyes: the most unusual shade of green, as focused as a hawk’s. I’d rarely seen her smile, and I’d never heard her say more than five words to anyone.
My attraction to butch women had always confused me because it felt like they were in some ways just a substitute for men. I’d never spent much time around lesbians as a group and I never identified as a lesbian, despite my two-year relationship with a woman. Kitt was as straight (or not straight) as I was. Now I was thirty-two, divorced and incarcerated after having had my heart obliterated by the only person I’d ever really loved. My biggest concern was not where I fell on the sexuality spectrum. Regardless of who or what I was, I was sure about Dan. From the moment I saw her, I wanted her.
“Why don’t you have better gloves?”
I realized I was staring at her, flexing my stiff fingers to revive my circulation. “I…uh…”
“Those gloves aren’t warm enough for you, Aimee.”
I had a moment of shock that she knew my first name, quickly replaced by joy that she had chosen to speak to me and finally embarrassment that I was caught with such inadequate gloves, even though the situation was completely out of my control.
“They’re not very warm,” I admitted.
“Your fingers are purple.” She frowned and stepped closer. “Seriously, you can’t be out here with those shitty gloves. Have you asked for better ones?”
“Of course.” I was a bit insulted that she thought I was so stupid it wouldn’t have occurred to me. “Several times.”
“Who’d you ask?”
“Mr. Donnelly. Greggson. Howard.”
She shook her head. “I’ll have a word with Kettinger.”
“Is he…Can he…?”
Dan shrugged. “Maybe. I’ll try, anyway. In the meantime, get your ass inside before you freeze to death. Come on.”
After that first day in the greenhouse, Dan made a habit of popping by when I was halfway through cleaning the yard and helping me finish. Having help meant I had a few free minutes left at the end of every shift. In those brief snatches of time, Dan spoke to me, a bit more every day.
I had no idea why she was so interested in helping me. I only knew that I appreciated her help and enjoyed watching her move around the yard. We worked in comfortable silence together, and every now and then I’d catch he
r looking in my direction, which thrilled me. Once I smiled, and she grinned in return.
Over the next week, I thought a lot about that grin. About making her look at me. There was a calm energy to Dan, and I loved being around her. She was a comforting presence, solid and consistent and safe. Moreover, she was interested in talking to me. For the first time in a long while, I felt like someone enjoyed my company.
Eight days after our first greenhouse encounter, Dan caught me and ducked inside. There was a flush in her cheeks, and she was slightly out of breath, which I attributed to the temperature. But when she smiled and handed me a pair of insulated gloves, I knew the weight of the gift. It was valuable both practically and personally.
“Oh my God, how did you swing this?” I gasped, sliding my hands into the welcome warmth.
She shrugged. “I’m connected, what can I say?”
“Thank you so much.” I packed every ounce of sincerity I could into my voice, and she looked pleased. When I flung my arms around her, however, she hesitated a moment before wrapping me up and holding me tightly. I sank into her, gratitude and excitement intertwined. Dan was touching me, and it was amazing.
“Gotta stay warm,” she whispered gruffly against my cheek. “You’re too sweet to let freeze to death.” I couldn’t help but tilt my head so her mouth was close to mine. In that moment, I was flooded with gratitude, but even more with desire. Despite my determination to stay unattached, I ached for her to kiss me. Instead, she deftly untangled herself from the embrace. Disappointment flooded through me as she walked away. Yet, when she got to the door, she tapped the frame twice and turned to me. “Find me later and we’ll have lunch, yeah?”
In the two hours until lunch, I died a thousand deaths wondering what she had in store. Were we going to eat lunch alone? Just the two of us? Usually, inmates ate in groups because two women eating alone tended to fuel the gossip mill. I didn’t care. I didn’t have any friends and chose to eat alone most days. Still, I’d never seen Dan eat with anyone but the same three older women at the table closest to the windows.
Maybe, I thought, she wanted me to eat with her group. That made more sense. I was a new friend she wanted to introduce. Maybe she’d noticed that I didn’t really have anyone. It would’ve been hard to miss. I was practically the only prisoner in my block who ate alone.
When at last lunchtime came, Dan was waiting for me. Without a word, she guided me to a secluded table in the back of the dining hall. My heart was in my throat as we walked past everyone on our way. It was a statement.
I was nervous, but she steered the conversation, which put me at ease. She asked about my family and even got me talking a little about Kitt and why I was in prison, all without me feeling even slightly panicked. I surprised myself by speaking easily, mesmerized by the gold in Dan’s eyes as she listened without judgment. I waited for condemnation that never came.
“Damn,” she marveled when I’d given her a brief summary of what had happened with Kitt in court. “Unbelievable that she would do that to you, Aimee.”
“Her husband was getting suspicious, so one day she just cut me off. I only wanted her to talk to me. It happened like she said, sort of, and then again it didn’t.” I shrugged and shredded my napkin into tiny confetti, so I wouldn’t have to see the pity I was sure I’d find on her face.
“Yeah,” Dan said softly. “Yeah, I know about that. I have an ex who—” She stopped herself and waved her words away. “Not important. I get it, that’s all I’m saying.”
I forced myself to look at her. There was no pity, only genuine concern. Before I could fully register how odd it was to be talking about the woman who’d betrayed me with the woman who’d rescued me, the buzzer rang and it was time to go.
When I moved to grab my tray, Dan slid her hand over mine. “Tonight, right here,” she said softly, squeezing my knuckles. I nodded.
We ate every meal together after that, and more. Dan invited me to sit near her in the common room the next night. We watched TV silently, side by side, our knuckles brushing against each other’s on the arms of the chairs. And at breakfast the following day, I leaned my knee against hers under the table. I didn’t think of it as flirting, not really. I just knew it felt good.
I got some curious glances in the cafeteria each day when we walked to the back table, but no one, as far I could tell, said a word. I’d witnessed the gentle ribbing and outright taunts women got when they paired off, and I was certain if I’d been with anyone else I’d have been the butt of lascivious jokes too. But Dan was untouchable, and because I was with her, I was afforded the same privacy and respect.
Dan was interesting, witty, dry, and shockingly talkative. Before the first day she’d visited me in the greenhouse, I’d heard her speak only a handful of times. But over lunches and in quiet corners of the common room, Dan opened up to me. She told me about her years in the air force and the break up from her former partner of eight years. I discovered she was quite a bit older than I—forty-six—which only fed my desperate insecurities about being inexperienced with women other than Kitt. She spoke matter-of-factly about the felony DUI charge that landed her in jail, her hard work toward sobriety and her future plans. I was grateful for her openness, but the more she told me, the more unworthy of her company I felt. What could Dan, who was so steadfast, so confident in her skin, possibly want with me? I was awkward and unpopular and afraid of almost everything.
Increasing my admiration, I found Dan wouldn’t let me downgrade myself. She reminded me that falling for the wrong person could happen to anyone, even twice; that loving both Kitt and my ex-husband was part of my journey, and that I could learn a lot from those relationships if I stopped judging them as mistakes and started thinking about them as experiences. She encouraged me to recognize the things that had worked: The library job I’d enjoyed so much after deciding I wasn’t cut out for marketing, the few friends who’d stuck by me even now. It may have felt like it had all fallen apart, she told me, but what was left in the rubble was a solid foundation on which I could rebuild.
When I told Dan that I did want to remake my life, she cupped my cheek and whispered, “Don’t beat yourself up so much. Be gentle with yourself, yeah?”
Dan was direct and open and, most astonishing of all, completely smitten with me. It was all over her—the way she gazed at me across the table, her understated compliments and words of encouragement, the softness in her voice when she said my name. Even with Kitt there had been tensions, imbalances always. She rarely complimented me, often ran hot and cold and at times I doubted her love while mine grew stronger, more desperate. By contrast, with Dan it felt easy and mutual. Without ever having a conversation about it, we fell into coupledom. Whatever remnants of a heart I had left were hers.
I thought about her constantly. When I lay in my bunk at night, I fantasized about her for hours until sleep took me. I replayed in my mind her quiet laughter and the way her mouth quirked up in the corners when she saw me at breakfast. I conjured images of those clear green eyes with the gold-rimmed pupils and imagined her whispering across the mattress to me. I didn’t dare masturbate as publicly as some of the others (unlike my neighbor below, who had no qualms about jiggling the bunk-bed every night to loud climaxes, much to my horror), but in the privacy of my bed I always thought of Dan’s long fingers touching me as I furtively made myself come, clenching my teeth around a fistful of bedsheet so as not to make a sound.
When at last she asked me one afternoon to hang back from dinner, I about leaped out of my skin with excitement. Our relationship thus far had blossomed under the watchful eyes of both guards and other inmates and had been just physical enough to keep me desperate for more. Dan explained that since Greggson and Howard were on meal duty, and they never did a head count until after we were all back, we had forty full minutes of privacy. We walked with the others as if we were headed to the dining hall, bringing up the rear, and then she tugged me into a utility closet next to the showers.
; How it was unlocked, I didn’t know. Dan had ways; this I was learning.
The pounding of my heart threatened to drown out everything else. I’d wanted this so badly, but now that it was a reality, I was paralyzed by doubts. Would I be able to please her? Could I get the specter of Kitt out of my head long enough to enjoy Dan without worrying she’d turn on me? And afterward—what then? Stolen kisses to add to our other crimes? Months of waiting to be together again after Dan was released? It seemed insane to start this, but I could no more stop it than I could still my own breathing.
Dan flicked a switch and we were illuminated by the dim glow of the overhead light. With a knowing smile curling the corners of her mouth, she locked the door and backed me against the wall.
Dan laid two long fingers on my lower lip and then those fingers trailed under my chin and down to the V in my uniform. Where she touched me my skin felt raw, as if she’d brushed sandpaper along my skin, although her fingertips were surprisingly soft.
“Dan,” I whispered.
She said nothing, just lowered her gaze to my mouth, her fingers paused in the hollow of my throat, on my pulse.
Oh God, I wanted her to kiss me. I ached for it on every inch of my skin, burned for it in the depths of my veins. There was no part of me that wasn’t perfectly attuned to the precise distance of her mouth from mine. I held my breath for that kiss with the blood pounding in my ears, roaring over old doubts that I shouldn’t let this go any further, that I shouldn’t open myself up again. I felt my face blaze and blinked back tears of pent-up frustration.
Her free hand gripped my waist, pinning me to the wall like a butterfly to a display board. Her thumb stroked my belly, making me ache there, too. I was drawn so tight I feared I would snap if she took her hand away. In desperation, I reached for her. With a shaky hand I caressed her cheek, tracing my fingertips over the crinkles at the corner of her eyes, rubbing her smooth jaw.
She leaned in to my touch even as her words contradicted her. “This is a stupid fucking idea. For both of us. I’ve never done this here.”