Among Women

by J. M. Cornwell

  Earlier that morning the guards broke up a quarrel over an envelope and a felt tip pen. Both combatants claimed the items. The guards came in when shouting turned to hair pulling and a sock on the jaw that ended with both women tangled on the floor. The guards broke it up and carted both off, but not before tossing the envelope and pen on the nearest picnic table to disappear as if they had never been there.

  It didn’t really matter. She preferred to think of being in jail as a skeleton for the closet. Good thing she didn’t have too many secrets and there was room for plenty of skeletons, not that she intended to fill her life or her closet with skeletons. It wouldn’t matter if there was one skeleton to rattle around. One is all she would ever add. The straight and narrow path for me after this. No more poppers in the French Quarter. No more being nice or saying hello to strangers. No more looking strangers in the eye. That is how to get into trouble.

  People spoke to her all the time: in line at the store, waiting for the bus or trolley and even while sitting in waiting rooms. She looked people in the eyes and smiled—until recently when natural affability could be mistaken for a come-on or a challenge—and that would have to change. Her mother always said she was too friendly. Even as a child, she had known no fear and never met a stranger.

  Strangers. There were lots of strangers in her life now. Ever since she moved to Florida, every day was filled with strangers, and she had greeted every one of them with smiles. One of them could have been the madam, the one who dressed and looked like her. That could be how the police got her name. No, taking on someone’s identity took time and planning and no one could have known she would end up in New Orleans unless . . .

  The loudspeaker crackled and sputtered. “Lights out.”

  Everyone gathered their things and shuffled in listless silence toward the stairs and to the cells. Pearl helped Betty pick up the cards and pack all the games and papers away in the cardboard box she carried to and from the cell every day.

  “See you in the mornin’, boo.”

  “In the morning.” Pearl went downstairs. Only one person knew she was coming to New Orleans, the one who suggested it—J.D. She had agreed without a second thought, never having seen Mardi Gras. They wouldn’t be there long enough to see it, just a couple of days, but she would be able to say she had been to New Orleans, to the French Quarter, and had seen the sights. She suddenly didn’t want to sleep, couldn’t sleep with her mind churning out possibilities and connections and going over every detail of their one day in the city. Had J.D. planned this or did someone send him to get her out of the way?

  Anything was possible and it was beginning to look like there was more to things than she had ever suspected. The hairs on the nape of her neck and along her forearms stood up, ghost fingers trailing along her nerves. Heart stuttering in her chest, Pearl considered the odds. It could have something to do with the murder. No, it couldn’t be that. She had waited for the police to contact her and no one came. Unless

  Best not to go down that road or she would never get to sleep.

  Locking the thoughts into a mental drawer, she composed herself for sleep and began counting breaths until fear gave way to fitful sleep.

  Six

  With shoes off and lined up under the desk at the head of the pallet, Pearl stripped off socks, panties and bra and put back on the shirt. She washed the socks and under things in the sink with the harsh white soap just as the lights went out. In the darkness, she rinsed them out and hung them up to dry before climbing beneath the rough blanket and curling up to chase sleep. Sleep stayed just out of reach.

  Pearl scratched her arms where the blanket touched. If not so wary of what or who lay on the mattress before, she’d untie the sheet and sleep on the bare mattress to keep something between her sensitive skin and the blanket. It reminded her of the nights she had been allowed to sleep at the Baptist Mission on Magazine Street.

  Someone made a killing selling blue dyed burlap sacking as blankets to the jail and charities around town or else the Baptist Mission sold their used blankets to the parish jail after they were no longer whole enough to serve for the undeserving poor. Pearl rubbed her arms. It reminded her of that first night at the Mission the week after J.D. left.

  Pride had kept her from going to the Mission the first week. Someone, she couldn’t remember who, told her she could get a bed at the Baptist Mission. There was a hitch; there was always a hitch for women. Females, no matter their age, were only allowed to stay every other night; men stayed every night. Men could even rent loungers during the day. The reasoning was that women without having a permanent (sort of) residence, they wouldn’t be able to set up shop and charge for their services, as if sex were the only thing on their minds. How anyone could manage sex in the crowded rooms was a mystery.

  Women and children were housed in rattle-trap dorms that had seen better centuries and would probably have gone up like dry tinder had smoking been allowed. Husbands had it pretty good. Women and children shared rickety metal bunks stacked to three and four levels until they brushed the crumbly ceilings. Whoever got the top bunks ended up with plaster all over the blankets and in their hair by morning.

  At least there had been sheets between skin and ratty blankets and shower curtains over the stalls in the communal bathroom, even though there had not been much room. In order to get a bed at all, it was necessary to arrive at dusk and stand in line, hoping you were there in enough time. What available beds there were went quickly. It was first-come, first-served. Christian charity at the Mission extended only so far. The Mission staff no doubt assumed desperate women would find other options. What kind of options did not bear considering. That could be the real reason behind their every other night policy, to give the women a chance to earn the money for other accommodations. If that was the case, the Mission staff was at least practical.

  The nights Pearl had slept at the Mission, her skin crawled. Her skin didn’t really crawl, but it certainly felt that way. She scratched both arms until they were red and welted. Fisting her hands, she had shoved them between her legs, ignored the near overwhelming urge to scratch and tried to sleep, but she barely managed a half dozen. Her arms had burned and sleep remained at a distance, teasing her eyelids with light weights that kept falling off. Her ears had twitched at every creak and squeak. The strange and ominous sounds had reminded her of rats, mice and the stealthy tread of a thief—or worse. Pallid winter mornings had seared sleep-deprived eyes and assaulted the senses with the foul stench of the city’s underside until she thought she’d go mad. About that time, Laura and the others showed up at the Traveler’s Aid in the YMCA at Lee Circle to find jobs.

  At Traveler’s Aid, she had been given five dollars in fast food coupons every day as long as they showed up for the jobs program, and she made them last. The jobs program afforded the opportunity to use their phone and address on applications. Laura, Chip and Leo were companions of necessity—no job and nowhere to live—and the four of them became companions by choice.

  By pooling their food tickets and plasma donation dollars, they were able to afford a motel room each night, a cheap and sleazy motel room, but a room all the same. They had not had enough money between them to rent a room with kitchenette for a week, thus saving them some money, but it was a place out of the weather, and fewer bugs. Two or three fewer, but fewer bugs was fewer bugs.

  The beds had been little better than sleeping at the Mission. When there was only one bed, they took turns, and the sheets had been cleaner and the blankets softer that at the Mission. The nights Pearl had not drawn the bed, she had slept on the floor, ears tuned to the furtive rustle of vermin. Wrapped in the sheet from the bed, she had felt like a mummy and could barely breathe. It had not been comfortable, but she had prayed the cocoon would keep out the creepy crawlies.

  Getting used to the dry, rustling whisper of cockroaches racing behind the walls had taken a lot more effort. She had never really been able to get over the feeling of multi-legged whatevers crawl
ing or slithering over her in the darkness.

  Inevitably, exhaustion and nerves frayed to mere wisps had taken an inevitable toll. Her body and nerves had given out until she slept like the dead, wishing she were dead in the morning when she had found a huge cockroach meandering across her bare legs. The mice were worse with their bright beady eyes, twitching noses and vibrating whiskers.

  She may have been sleeping on the floor again, but there were no strange whispery sounds behind the walls, and she had not seen so much as an ant. If it were not for the bars, being locked away from sunlight and fresh air, no job, no income and all the women, the situation would be almost perfect.

  Eyes heavy with boredom and waiting, Pearl fell asleep with thoughts of judges and freedom and food.

  Pearl stood before a vast table covered with newspapers. The muffled clang of a bell sounded somewhere in the distance. The bell reminded her of something important, something she was supposed to recognize; she could not remember what.

  Bells meant joyous celebrations and weddings and the end of the school day. Bells . . . All conjecture ceased as a brawny, red-faced man dumped a steaming basket the size of an industrial garbage can onto the table.

  The bell must have been some kind of timer. Dinner was served.

  Red crawfish, headless shrimp of delicate blushing pink, small cobs of sunny yellow corn, potatoes in their earthy brown and red skins, and whole and half onions tumbled out onto the table. The heat and smell of spices and cayenne pepper rushed up in a cloud, enveloping her senses. Her fingers twitched, unsure where to begin, and her mouth watered. Cap stood beside her. “Pick a spot and dig in.” He took a blood red crawfish and twisted the head from the body, sucking out the dripping cayenne-laced juices and tossed it into a can lined with newspaper before pulling the succulent meat from the tail, popping it in his mouth and casting the skeleton aside. “Suck the head and eat the tail,” he said. “It’ll not last forever.” He picked up a potato with one hand and offered a crawfish with the other. “Don’t be shy.” He gestured at the other people clustered around the table expertly twisting, sucking and devouring their share.

  Pearl reached for a little cob of corn and bit into it. Cajun spices dripped through her fingers and opened sinuses and ears. It tasted like heaven with a hint of hell.

  In the distance, the bell clanged. It was louder and closer. Pearl ignored it and reached for some shrimp, peeled them and popped them into her mouth. No, not hell, pure heaven. She tried to concentrate on the food, but the dratted bell clanged louder and closer.

  Someone put a hand on her shoulder and she shrugged it off. No matter how she shrugged the interloper off, they would not go away. They grabbed her shoulder and shook it again. “Stop it!”

  “Roll call. Get up.”

  “Not while I’m eating,” she mumbled. The unseen stranger shook her shoulder more forcefully. Pearl batted at the hand. Numbing cold burned away the last of the dream. Roll call. Get up.

  Pearl barely made it into the hallway before the guard got there. Icicles stabbed her from the concrete wall, leaching the warmth from shoulders to buttocks. She swayed on her feet while the guard ticked her name on the clipboard. She dove through the door and under the covers, burrowing toward the last vestiges of heat and the ragged scraps of the dream.

  “Breakfast.”

  “I’m not hungry.” Under the blankets, Pearl curled into a ball around the empty, grumbling void of her stomach. She wanted to close her eyes and plunder the food where it was warm and the lights were not hot spears in her eyes. Anywhere so long as it was far from the frigid touch of the cell.

  “It’s Monday. Brand new week.”

  Monday. I’m out of here. Pearl scrambled up, staggered to the sink and splashed some water on her face. The shock of the freezing water dispelled the last of the dream. With any luck, she would be in the Quarter among her friends by noon, four at the latest. The first thing she wanted to do was find a bar serving a proper crawfish boil.

  Toilet, dress, fasten her shoes and onto the quad to line up for breakfast. One more bowl of Cream of Wheat or grits or whatever there was, hot tea (the sugar was hers this morning), a quick clean-up of the cell and then she would roll out.

  “Boo, you goin’ somewheres?” Betty spooned up grits and scrambled eggs.

  “Home,” Pearl said around a mouthful of hot grits.

  “Mm hmm.” Betty sucked her teeth, finished her breakfast and handed her tray to the first person passing by, pulled the cards out and shuffled. “Gin rummy or war?”

  “Thanks, but neither.” Pearl put the tray back and headed downstairs. She straightened the pallet and swept and mopped the floor before Tamara returned. When Tamara stepped into the cell, Pearl handed her the toilet brush. “I’ll wipe down the desk and sink. Floor’s already done.” Tamara gaped, one eyebrow cocked.

  With the cell done and her clothes in order, Pearl strolled over to Betty’s table to sit and wait to be called. Not long now.

  A slender guard with café au lait skin, nose and cheeks sprinkled with raised freckles, came in and read off some names. The women lined up along the wall next to the door. “Castro. Devereaux. Pointer. Whitcomb. Xavier.”

  What happened to Caldwell? Pearl held her breath, stood up and approached the other guard. “Excuse me, ma’am. Are those the names for court?” The guard looked up, menace clear in her eyes. Pearl took one hasty step back.

  She remembered the guard from the first day on the quad: fat red lips, round face to match the round barrel of her body, legs like great stumps and beady eyes thickly rimmed with liner. Not all the bright colors in the world could disguise the sneering threat. The guard’s eyes reminded her of a beetle’s carapace, hard and shiny.

  Those eyes had glittered with expectation when she had closed the door to the little room that first night Pearl had arrived. The fat deputy snapped on rubber gloves. “Drop your pants,” she ordered. “Bend over and grab your thighs.” The bitch was implied. The guard probed with rubber-gloved efficiency, taking her time and hooking her fingers when she pulled them out. Pearl had bitten back a yelp of pain. Hot tears had pricked her eyelids. There had been blood on her lips when she had bent over to pull up her clothes. The guard smirked.

  Walpole was written on the badge. “Ms. Walpole, my name is Caldwell, Pearl Caldwell. I‘m supposed to go to court this morning.”

  “Are you now?” The guard’s tone was dangerously soft. She motioned Pearl to hold up her wristband. “Well, Caldwell, Pearl Caldwell, looks like your invitation got lost in the mail.” She turned sideways and motioned the other five women into the vestibule where two more guards fastened on shackles and handcuffs. She glanced at Pearl and then nodded to the slender guard. After a whispered conversation, the slender guard made a note on the clipboard and closed the door with a sharp, final clunk.

  It’s Monday. Why am I still here?

  “Boo, might as well play cards. Last thing you want is them guards on yo’ case.”

  “I was supposed to go home today.”

  “Not likely, boo.”

  A weight descended hard, bearing Pearl’s head down and forcing tears past her tightly closed eyelids. Her stomach flipped and bile-spattered grits and eggs stung all the way up into her throat. Clapping a hand over her mouth, she ran across the quad and fell to her knees before the toilet near the showers. Her stomach turned inside out. Breakfast spewed into the bowl mingled with scalding tears. Retching until she brought up nothing but thin, yellowish bile, Pearl flushed the toilet. Her legs were loose as limp noodles when she tried to stand. She caught at the toilet seat and swayed, jaw working, muscles jumping. Pushing off the seat, she shuffled over to the sink and splashed water over lips and face, rinsing away the last foul taste. Wiping her mouth on a sleeve, she went to the cell, dropping to the pallet like a spent stone.

  She was stuck here for who knew how long. The last bit of hope drained away. Her chest tightened. Breath came in shallow gasps. The ceiling spun in circles, moving faster
and faster until her stomach clenched and the room wavered like a fever dream. No one knew she was here. Might as well go to sleep and hope her aching heart would stop. There would be no reprieve or last minute stay of execution. She was stuck, good and stuck.

  She jammed her foot against the wall and closed her eyes. Enough self pity. After counting to ten, Pearl slowly opened her eyes and focused on a brown water spot on the ceiling until the room stopped spinning. Breathing deeply and concentrating on the ceiling tile dots, she counted each one: one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four…. Stomach tilted on a roller coaster dive while she forced muscles to loosen and go slack.

  When she was a child and woke up with nightmares, she had never cried out. She did not want to wake her sisters sleeping in the next bed. Instead, she had said a little prayer: Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. Pearl added another little prayer: Please let me go home.

  As a child, she had concentrated on the scariest point in the room, usually the curtains where vampires and demons lurked in shifting shadows. She forced herself to look at what she feared the most while eyes grew heavier and heavier. Fighting sleep and the return of the nightmares, Pearl imagined the same dream again, imagining changes. Vampires and demons became trick-or-treaters or masks on sticks at a ball and murderers were just people defending themselves from rapists. As she slept, bad turned to good, or at least to manageable.

  Curling up on one side under the blanket, she thought of the good that had already come from this experience. I would not have met Betty. There’s food, a bed and a roof I don’t have to pay for. She couldn’t think of anything else, so she closed her eyes and murmured the prayer. Now I lay me down to sleep. She yawned and drifted away into sleep.

  Tamara had followed Pearl and stayed just out of sight to listen. Quietly, she slipped into the cell after removing her shoes, took the extra blanket from her bunk and put it over Pearl, gently tucking the sides under the mattress. She tiptoed out, picked up the shoes and went to the far stairs to put them on before returning to the quad.