Gospel According to Prissy

by Barbara Casey

  “There was the dog-training program, sir.” In anticipation, Scott moved the mouse and clicked so more information would appear.

  “What dog-training program?”

  Scott was prepared. “For those inmates who have the desire and interest, they are given instruction on how to prepare a dog for service under the tutelage of professional trainers. They learn how to train dogs that will assist physically-challenged people across the country.”

  The governor nodded, remembering the argument Miriam had given him. Not all of the inmates could work with animals, she explained, making him feel like a two year old. But for some, having a responsibility, even if it was nothing more than taking care of an animal, meant the difference between looking forward to getting up each day or wallowing in self pity. Taking care of something deflected the attention away from themselves and their own problems, and training the animals made them feel as though they were doing something useful, she had stressed.

  “What else? Didn’t we fund a new theater?” He glanced impatiently toward the guard who was talking to someone on the phone.

  “That was four years ago, sir, and actually it is an auditorium that doubles as a theater. You’ll see it today. Sir.” He didn’t mean it to sound like a rebuke, but that is how it came out. The governor’s raised eyebrows didn’t go unnoticed.

  Governor Rushing still felt the blistering Miriam had given him when at first he had refused her request for a theater. It was her goal to help all of the women, she had told him, but especially those who posed the biggest challenge; those who showed little or no possibility for rehabilitation. The inmates were bored; that was evident. They had nothing to think about other than their own miserable situations. As a compromise, he had agreed to give her some television sets and games to start off with. At least that would help ease the immediate pressure. But then she began inviting people in from the nearby communities to give instructions on making crafts, cooking, sewing, computer, and even yoga – anything that would provide some sort of creative outlet for the inmates. By gauging the success of each new project, Miriam determined where to push next. Believing that education was an equalizer regardless of a person’s background, she managed to convince a handful of retired school teachers to volunteer their time teaching various subjects to the prisoners. Most of the women prisoners had little or no education, and this was a way to help them better themselves, or at the very least, give them something to be interested in.

  Private funds that had not previously been forthcoming now started dribbling in – slowly at first and only for the most immediate, critical needs. But as Miriam became more confident, her requests became larger in proportion. That was when she told him a few television sets and games were not enough. A movie theater doubling as an auditorium was needed to be used not only for entertainment but for educational purposes. By then she already had the community behind her – potential voters in upcoming elections. Reluctantly, he had given in, afraid she had the power to go to some higher authority that would punish him if he didn’t.

  “There was the wing that was added to house the inmates with children.” Scott’s fingers moved rapidly across the keyboard. “Which is the main reason you are presenting Warden Temple with the award today,” he added. “It has been quite a success, and there have been favorable write-ups about it around the country.” Scott rapidly tapped the key board and pulled up the article he was searching for. “This one from the New York Times refers to you as ‘a progressive governor’ for supporting the project.”

  The governor shook his head. “I still don’t agree with it. It’s like we are rewarding those inmates with a cushy place to live. And what kind of example are we setting for the kids who live in a prison?” It was the same reasons he had given Miriam, but, as usual, he was no match for her. Considering everything, he wondered if he didn’t have some sort of psychological complex against tall women. She just seemed to have a way of looking down on him that made him feel intimidated and more than a little inadequate.

  The guard hung up the phone and motioned to the limousine driver to go through. The bus followed. The governor hadn’t visited the prison in several years, and the changes – all for the good – were evident. A large garden off to the left caught his immediate attention. Neat, straw-covered rows prepared for spring planting stretched out covering more than an acre of land. Then, “Look at those dog runs,” he said sitting up and craning his neck to look in a different direction. Framed as they were by distant rolling hills and pine thickets, they weren’t the eyesore he had feared they would be. Rather, they added to the bucolic setting.

  “That is some of the private land that was donated,” Scott said. Several acres of land adjoining the prison – which the inmates referred to as “the farm” – had been donated by a local farmer to be worked by the inmates for raising vegetables and flowers – things that could be used within the prison walls. What Scott already knew but wasn’t about to tell the governor was that eventually Miriam wanted to use part of that land for horses. There was a similar experimental program in Florida where the Thoroughbred Retirement Foundation placed horses that were no longer productive in the industry with inmates for them learn how to work with them. The inmates were given the responsibility to feed and take care of the horses, and the initial reports were positive. It would mean another State grant which was why he wasn’t going to be the one to tell the governor about it.

  As they approached the main building the governor saw for the first time the new wing that had been added to house the inmates with infants and young children. Again he shook his head. Well, what was done was done. It made for good copy and with all of the reporters he had summoned for this outing, there had better be some good copy to come out of it.

  * * *

  The young child skipped through the tall trees and underbrush, unaware of the puddles created by recent rains or the low-lying tree branches and vines that swiped at her coveralls and scratched her bare arms. Hugging a doll that showed the wear of a favorite toy and a faint smudge of chocolate ice cream, the child pushed forward with determination. She knew where she wanted to go, and her face showed the intensity and resolve of a person much older than her five years. The black woman wearing the uniform of a prison guard struggled to keep up with her young charge. The thick green tangle of natural forest growth and uneven turf was more of a challenge to a woman her size and stature.

  The child stopped when she reached a clearing, that place in the woods that wasn’t quite so overgrown and where the wild vegetation had been pressed from previous visits. In front of her was a tree, magnificent in size, ancient in age. She had reached her destination. She called it, quite simply, “the place.” Quietly, reverently, she approached the tree, reaching out and touching the familiar rough surface and its many irregular crevices. She squatted where some roots had pushed upward and were now gnarled and covered in bark before extending downward again deep into the soil. It was between two of these large root formations that the child placed the doll – a throne. Her hand explored the curvature of one darkened root, first touching the soft green moss, and then the small indented place that held water whenever it rained. It was moist. Satisfied, she knelt. Then, lowering her head and folding her dimpled hands together, she started to pray.

  Time passed, and the only sounds that could be heard were the things of nature. A whippoorwill off in the distance, a dove startled from its nest; the gentle breeze as it ruffled the upper-most branches of the tree – the sigh of an angel. The air was cool, and it was heavy with the scent of rich damp earth. When the child finished, she turned and began running back the way she had come. The black woman, with the words “Amen, sweet Jesus” still on her lips, reached for Prissy’s small hand. Smiling now, the two of them, the little girl with her doll in tow and the prison guard, carefully made their way back through the forest.

  Without their knowledge, hidden within the cool dappled shadows of trees and brush, someone watched, remembering another time
, another child, who also had been drawn to the great tree.

  * * *

  The old woman sat rocking in her favorite chair holding a tin can and the little hand-stitched pouch of snuff. The chair had been made for her grandmother to use, and then passed on to her mother. Now it was hers. Most of the paint was worn off except for a little bit of white at the base of the oak spindles that connected the rockers to the seat. That didn’t bother Bulah Tilden, though. She liked to feel the smoothness of the natural wood against her skin, wood that had been rubbed and darkened with time. She wore a loose-fitting house dress, an old black sweater, and her favorite scuffs. The sweater had been mended several times, but she didn’t mind. It was soft and comfortable, and it broke the sudden chill that occasionally passed through her body, even on the hottest of days. “Death’s finger,” she called it.

  Her granddaughter had brought her some Copenhagen snuff from Atlanta, the kind she liked. If she used just a small pinch each day, she could make it last a lot longer. She had used snuff for as long as she could remember. It helped whatever ailed her physically and kept her spirits up. As a young woman she had dipped Garrett snuff because that was what all the women folk did in that part of North Carolina where she had been brought up. It was ground a lot finer than Copenhagen, though. Almost like a powder. She had used a small hickory stick to dip into the powder after licking it to make the snuff stick and then she sucked on the stick. She remembered one Christmas someone giving her some foreign snuff in a real pretty bright yellow tin – Black Rappee from England. She could still remember the name of the company that made it: Samuel Gaywith and Company. But she was supposed to sniff it rather than stick it in her mouth, and she didn’t like that. It made her sneeze. Maybe it was all right for those foreigners, but she preferred something a little coarser and something she could put in her mouth. She kept the tin, though, and every once in a while she would take it out and look at it.

  It was late in the afternoon – that time of day when the shadows were a little longer, the air – normally still – was stirring just a bit, and the sun was barely low enough in the western sky so that the large branches of the giant poplar tree could throw a little shade onto the front porch. The old woman scratched around inside the pouch and pinched off a little bit of the coarse, shredded tobacco. Then using one finger, the middle one, she carefully pushed the tobacco inside her mouth between her cheek and gum. The tin can had come with green beans in it, but it was empty now and the label had been scraped off. She liked green bean cans the best. They had grooves circling around the sides that made it easy for her to hold on to. The metal was thin as well, and she could easily mold its shape to fit her hand. Bending her head slightly, she spit some of the dark juice into the can and then settled back into her chair, enjoying the tingly, warming sensation in her mouth.

  As Bulah Tilden rocked, her lips moved as though in conversation while silently she reflected on her life. There had been so much evil and sadness. Somehow it just didn’t seem natural for her to outlive her own children. But the Lord worked in mysterious ways. And it was His wish that she live. He had left her with the two youngest granddaughters and a great-grandbaby – a baby that had been born with the gift of prophesy. One of the granddaughters was in prison. That was where she had her baby. The other granddaughter had been living in Atlanta, but she was back home now where she belonged. Praise the Lord.

  The two granddaughters and that baby was all she had left, but that was His wish. There was a reason things had turned out the way they had. She put her faith in her Lord and prayed each day that He would guide her and show her the way. She didn’t need to understand His plan; she only needed to be ready to do His will whenever He asked. She also prayed every day asking for His forgiveness, for without that forgiveness she knew, “Upon the wicked He shall rain snares, fire and brimstone, and a horrible tempest, this shall be the portion of their cup.” She hadn’t lived for seventy-nine years on this earth only to wind up burning in hell.

  Soon He would be calling her home. She knew this as well. She could tell by the way the leaves on the poplar tree were twisting on their stems – much the same way they did right before a thunderstorm. Her dark eyes were clouded, making it difficult to see, and her hearing was almost completely gone. But her mind remained sharp. The Lord had something in mind for her, one last thing He needed for her to do. And once she did that one last thing, then she knew that her Lord would be calling her home. Praise the Lord.

  CHAPTER TWO

  JAKE SLID THE food tray closer to Lara. The medication Dr. Hoyle had given her made her feel disconnected and numb somehow. That and the paralyzing realization that she had completely lost control of her life.

  “Honey, they’ve brought you some soup. You need to eat something.” Jake began fixing pillows under Lara, carefully raising her up as he did. “Does it still hurt?” He examined her face and smiled.

  Lara glanced away, not wanting to look at him, wishing he would just leave. How could he be so tender and concerned one minute and a complete homicidal maniac the next? Involuntarily, she started to tremble. Tears spilled down her face, soaking the pillow. The doctor said she would be emotional.

  “Jake, we need to go to a marriage counselor. I can’t go on like this.”

  “I promise you, it will never happen again.” His dark hair hung boyishly over one eye and he held her hand, still smiling. He glanced toward the door making sure no one was close enough to overhear. “It’s this new job and all. You understand, don’t you?” He hung his head as Lara had seen him do so many times. Before, it had caused her to feel sorry for him. This time was different. The only pain she felt was her own. She didn’t know if she could survive it. “There’s just so goddamn much to do,” he continued. “But I’ll get through it. You’ll see. We’ll get through it,” he added, stroking her hand.

  “But why won’t you go to the counselor?” Lara persisted. “You know it’s . . .”

  He dropped her hand. “Lara, you know what this town is like. Population twenty-six thousand. One visit to a marriage counselor and everyone in eastern North Carolina will be talking about it – including the Caldwells. You know as well as I do they wouldn’t approve of something like that. An old family with old money – and lots of it. They believe in fixing their own problems and not taking them to an outsider – especially someone like a marriage counselor. I would probably get fired. You wouldn’t want that, would you? After all, it was you who wanted me to take this job. Get away from the stress of being a tax accountant you told me. A new beginning, and all of that. Right? I’m doing all of this for you, honey.” He glanced again at the door. “I told you it won’t happen again. It won’t. So just drop it.”

  A reddish flush had crept up his neck and face. It was the same argument he had used on Lara before – deflecting the blame from himself and placing it on her. At first she had believed it. After all, she had encouraged him to accept the Caldwells’ offer naming him Executive Vice President of their conglomerate of agriculture businesses, believing that without the stress of quarterly and year-end deadlines, not to mention tax season itself, Jake would get his drinking problem under control. The agribusiness was what Jake had grown up with. It would put him back in touch with his roots and give him a healthier focus. But it hadn’t. Jake’s drinking only got worse, along with the lying and deceit. Lara knew it was useless to argue with him. She had already lost, just like before. But unlike before, this time she had also lost her baby.

  * * *

  The auditorium was completely filled with inmates who had been allowed to watch the proceedings. Governor Garland Rushing had his own entourage of photographers, reporters, a couple of security guards, and an assortment of assistants positioned at various places around the stage. Scott stood closest to the governor just in case there was a question.

  The governor’s speech was short and simple, and it expressed the appreciation of the State of North Carolina for Warden Temple’s strong leadership and many accomplish
ments – all reflecting positively on the beautiful State of North Carolina. Equally short and simple was Miriam’s thank you. She knew that the governor’s stop at the prison was only one of many others he had planned that day. There was no need to make him run behind schedule.

  Miriam smiled as she accepted the plaque, and her girls erupted in whistles, cheers, and loud applause. The plaque would go on the wall in her office next to the others she had received over the years. She hoped there wouldn’t be any kind of incident – a practical joke of some sort or political demonstration – something to embarrass the governor. Her girls were aware that it was the governor who had tried to block many of the warden’s efforts, and he wasn’t especially popular within Braden’s walls. She wasn’t overly concerned about the women she had gotten to know during their stay at Braden. It was the new inmates, the ones she hadn’t gotten to know yet, who might cause a problem. They were the ones who felt they had to test the system, or they felt they were being disadvantaged in some way.

  Miriam didn’t have any children of her own, grown or otherwise. She had never been engaged even, much less married. It wasn’t that she didn’t feel attractive enough to interest a man; rather, her interests had always carried her to things other than the opposite sex. Her own parents were now gone. These women and the few children who lived within the confines of the prison walls were the closest thing she would ever have to a family. Maybe that was why she was so driven to accomplish as much as possible for them. Or maybe it was because she realized it was only luck that had allowed her to escape being locked up herself as a teenager. This unknown blotch against her otherwise perfect record had been put behind her years earlier, but even so, it still caused her an occasional sleepless night. Whatever the reason for her motivation, she knew she had a calling that had put her in this position to begin with – a position that included steel bars and locks, two hundred women, and a handful of children of various ages.