“Put them sheets on the cart and get moving. Don’t got all day.” The deputy banged the broom on the door frame. “Move.”
Pearl looked up into the dark moon face of Deputy Walpole whose lips were smeared with dark blood stretched over a gleaming row of teeth like alabaster tombstones, not in a smile but a baring of fangs, a warning.
She scooped the sheets from the floor, stuffed them in the canvas hamper on the side of the cart and turned toward her cage.
“Get the mop. You ain’t done yet.” Deputy Walpole placed meaty paws on the solid bulwarks of her hips. Pearl nodded. No, she was not done yet. She took a deep breath and finished cleaning.
Every steel surface shone and the floor gleamed wetly. She checked the blankets on the cart, looking for two that were more or less intact and thick enough to keep out the cold, and dumped the others in the hamper. She tucked in the ends and smoothed the scratchy mottled dark blue over her new bunk, plumped the pillow over the extra blanket (another gift from Tamara) and sighed as she dropped onto the bunk. This was hers, all hers, but only for a while. One week of waking on the floor, one hand trailing on the tiles during the night, blue with cold in the morning, and then prickling with hot needles when warmth returned as she curled stiff fingers around a cup of hot tea with her breakfast was finished. She refused to think of anything beyond that. That path led to madness and depression and a slow slide toward the welcome release of lingering death, the only freedom available for the lost and forgotten.
One interminable week that seemed more like three crawled past like a cockroach on two legs was not an eternity no matter how much it felt like it sometimes. One week down and an eternity to go. At least it was somewhat warmer (just barely) than being homeless and selling plasma. On this frozen floor, there was clean tile and a mattress to cushion the unyielding surface without insects, mice or spiders to scale the fleshy heights on vermin business. The floor was cleaner and smelled better than the carpets on which she had slept, and there was shelter from the elements. No need to doze on park benches in Jackson Square in the distant winter sunshine with one eye and one ear open for approaching police.
There was food and a place to sleep and, because of Tamara’s generous gifts, a few of the necessities of life. It was enough for now.
Do what you were meant to do. That was a dream. No, it was what Tamara told her when she took Pearl’s hand in her hot-fingered grasp.
Pearl had no idea what Tamara meant. What could she do but survive and find something to alleviate the mind-numbing weight of endless hours?
At the door, Deputy Walpole thrust a paper at her. “Canteen.” She turned to leave.
“I don’t have any money.”
“First of the month. You got money.”
“How much?”
“Twenty-five dollars.”
Pearl stared stupidly at the paper, the printed columns and words swimming together.
“I ain’t got all day.”
“Thank you.” She rushed out the door after the guard. “I don’t have a pencil.”
Deputy Walpole glared back at her. “Not my problem.” She continued down the hall.
Betty has a pen. She rushed up the stairs. Betty held out the pen as soon as Pearl came around the corner of the guard station, looking down at the cards, sucking her teeth and chewing her gum. Pearl took the pen, thanked her and began checking off items. Money that seemed like a fortune moments before dwindled rapidly once reality set in. Thank goodness for Tamara’s generosity. She wouldn’t need much. She needed a toothbrush and does not need sugar. Pearl ticked her choices, backtracking, adding, subtracting, leaving a little something for later. A month was a long time to make twenty-five dollars last, but she craved ice cream, butter pecan, just one container.
“Get a pen,” Betty said.
Pearl went down the list, found a pen and marked it. Better get two. The money dwindled No, only one. Stamped envelopes—she didn’t have anyone to write, at least no one with a fixed address she knew. Paper. Legal pads, yellow. She pondered. She didn’t have letters to write but she could write, get some of her feelings down on paper—if she remembered how.
It had been ages since she wrote anything that did not have to do with work or bills. There was that book she started in Florida, but that was not writing. She hadn’t written anything for herself since her mother punished her for venting her anger, disappointment, pain and teenage longings in a diary. She could write for pleasure or just record her thoughts the way she used to do. What she was unable and unwilling to say to these women, these strangers—the life inside, her fears and joys, her existence—she could put down on paper. The story of her days and nights told to a paper confidante that would neither judge nor commiserate was something to look forward to again. There was not enough money for everything. She changed the order for one felt tip pen and checked the list again, choosing carefully and limiting the luxuries. I have to leave something for next week and the week after that and the week after that. I have to plan ahead.
What use was a pen without paper? It is foolish to buy a felt tip pen just to make out a canteen list a couple times a month. A pen supposed paper, needed paper to be worth buying. She added two legal pads. There was little money left. She really didn’t care for packets of unsweetened Kool-Aid and dill pickles. Her mouth watered at the thought. Well, she would like a dill pickle, but it was not absolutely necessary and she’d probably get tired of drinking melted butter pecan ice cream. It was better as a one-time treat. She added her order to the others.
“Tamara rolled out. I knowed it was time.”
“She howled at the moon.”
“Full moon,” Betty said as though that explained everything. “She s’posed to only be here for a month, but family wanna teach her a lesson. She spent mo’ time this time. They be tight with the high sheriff.”
“They can’t do that.”
Betty looked at Pearl as though she were clueless. “They do what they wants. That why she in here all the time.”
“Tamara looked like she was rich.”
“She do be rich. That family hold them purse strings tight. Jail be lots cheaper than one of them hospitals. She don’ do like they say and she be back. Make no mistake, she be back. Don’ nevah like bein’ tole what to do, boo. Got the luck, though. S’posed to be in for a year and lef’ in six months.”
Six months of canteen and tuna. Six months of pacing the quad and reading the same books over through the endless rounds of sleep, chores and meals. Six months of the relentless tick of heartbeat and hours. How did Tamara do it? How will I do it?
“You playin’ or goin’ fix up yo’ room?”
“Pardon?”
“Cards. You stayin’ or fixin’ up yo' room?” Betty shuffled the worn cards.
“Oh. Cards are fine. There’s nothing to do. I already made up the bed and cleaned the cell.”
“Rummy or Euchre?”
“Euchre.”
Deputy Walpole waltzed out the door with a sheaf of canteen slips between her fingers. The highly polished leather belt around her ample middle squeaked, keeping cadence with her gyrating hips and reminding Pearl of Walt Disney’s Fantasia and The Dance of the Hours. Walpole moved with the determination of a charging rhino and the grace of dancing hippos, a study in contrasts: an overripe and generous appearance coupled with the thinly disguised contempt and meanness of a skinflint hoarding the emotional gold of gripes and complaints.
Lunch was red beans and rice and collard greens that tasted sharply bitter without the salty-sour bite of vinegar Pearl craved. Dinner would be cold sandwiches again with hours of cards and dominoes and then a hot breakfast and cold lunch and dinner with more dominoes and cards and hours to fill. Eat, drink, sleep, wait and do it all over again the next day, and the next and the next. The only things that occasionally changed were faces like the tiny Oriental doll of a woman that stepped onto the quad that afternoon.
Head down, thick black hair a silken waterfall flowing past
a glimpse of the ivory, onyx and carnelian of face, eyes and lips, reminded Pearl of a doll her father had sent from Korea years ago. The living doll that moved forward looked fragile. Tiny bare feet peeked from beneath the embroidered hem of a brocade gown.
Pearl imagined the doll woman in a sparsely furnished room lying on a bed of intricately carved and lacquered sandalwood dressed in satin, silk and lace, adorned with gems and scented with rare perfumes. She was a striking jewel in the silence of a pillowed silken nest waiting for a lover, an exotic bird in a gilded cage that sang only in the emperor’s presence.
There was no emperor here, only other women caught in the system’s gears, and one queen suddenly interested in something new. The new girl had caught Maureen’s eye and, like a shark circling prey, Maureen moved in, following at a safe distance as the Asian doll padded along behind the deputies on her way to the showers to be doused and de-loused and put on display; at least that was the plan.
A stampeding herd of dispossessed and disgruntled inmates streamed across the quad into the blind canyon of the far corner to break apart into grumbling groups. Some pushed their way onto the lower stairs, waving the usual tenants off. Some sat on the floor and continued games of cards, while others muttered and made stuttering attempts to reclaim their ground, moving away, shaking their heads and casting angry furtive glances over their shoulders as they left.
Pearl’s curiosity got the best of her and she excused herself to go to her cell. “I’ll be right back.” Betty didn’t look up from her single-minded contemplation of the cards, just nodded, sucked her teeth and cracked her gum.
A slow amble across the quad and down the stairs brought Pearl to the cell to use the toilet, comb her hair and smooth the blanket. That should be enough time. She mounted the stairs and glanced towards the showers in time to see the tall, slender, light-skinned deputy step toward the showers with the de-lousing spray. Maureen stood guard at the corner of the guard station, arms crossed and leaning against the wall, facing Pearl when she came back up, one eyebrow arched and her head tilted. Pearl nodded and strolled over to Betty’s table.
“Maureen done moved ‘em out. Ain’ never seed her so protective. She don’ nevah think of nobody but her, and now she done took an int’rest in that China girl.”
“I think she’s Korean.”
“Ain’ no never mind.” Betty examined the cards, shifted them about and laid down the hand. “Gin. Bet she standing guard so don’ nobody see.”
“How do you know?”
“I been knowin’ Maureen. yo’ deal.”
When Pearl started to ask another question, Betty tapped the table. Pearl shuffled, dealt and ordered the cards when the deputies, the night and day twins because of their contrasting skin color and almost identical features and hairdos, marched past with a bulging paper sack and off the quad. A dazed doll in clothes four or five sizes too big followed, head down and feet still bare. She sank down to a crouch next to the quad door while Maureen trailed in her wake. Not until Maureen passed Betty’s table did the evicted inmates stream past, keeping as close to the railings as possible, eyes locked on Maureen as they passed. As soon as they made the safety of the guard station, they rushed to claim their ground. Pearl glanced over her shoulder long enough to see Maureen settled cross-legged against the wall about ten feet away from where the new inmate hugged her knees and hid her face behind the midnight curtain of her hair.
“Yo turn, boo.”
“Oh, right.” Pearl laid down her hand. “Gin.” She might have been interested in Maureen’s strange behavior, but that did not mean she hadn’t paid attention to the game. That was something she learned from Betty and from furtive fumblings in the front seat of her fiancé’s car at the drive-in movies as a teenager. She had been able to neck and watch the movie so she could give a complete account of the plot and characters when her parents grilled her. In order to survive in any new environment, old skills must be adapted to new situations.
The little Korean woman did not move when dinner was called. Neither did Maureen.
Instead of heaping her tray and taking the choicest bits from worshipers offering up their trays, Maureen kept her vigil and waved away anyone who came near. Both women stayed against the wall until Deputy Walpole opened the door wide enough to drop a pair of pink running shoes on the floor. The Korean woman roused and rose in one fluid movement. She bent over and undid the laces before stepping into the shoes, hands braced against the wall as she forced her tiny feet into the even tinier shoes. They didn’t fit. Heels hung over the rigid backs of the pink tennis shoes decorated with Smurfettes, she sank to her haunches, hugged her knees and let the black silk waterfall of her hair fall over her face. There she stayed until lights out.
Pearl lingered, pushing chairs under the table and brushing imaginary dust from the surface, wondering if she should offer some help. The Korean woman hadn’t moved since she put on the shoes. Does she even know English? Pearl knelt down in front of her. “We have to go to our cells.”
She looked up, her dark almond-shaped eyes red-rimmed, her face blotchy from crying. “I do not know where.”
“Did they give you a number?” She nodded. “Does it start with a one or a two?”
“One.” She held out a slip of paper.
Pearl looked at it and smiled. “That’s next to mine.” She offered a hand. “I’ll show you.”
“Thank you.” She got up and stumbled as she took a step. Pearl caught her elbow. The woman took off the shoes and nodded to let Pearl know she was all right. They walked down the stairs together. Pearl pointed out the cell and the empty pallet on the floor. “Thank you.” She hesitated.
Imagining what she would want to know in the other girl’s place she offered her name. “Pearl.”
She dipped her head and pointed to her chest. “Joo-Eun. That means Pearl in Korean. We are the same.”
Pearl bowed her head briefly and went into her own cell, pulling the door shut. A shadow moved on the quad near the metal railing. Maureen waited at the first step looking down into the bottom tier. When she noticed Pearl looking up at her through the bars, she climbed the stairs, stopped and nodded at Pearl with a grateful look before sailing up them. Pearl wondered why Maureen had not offered to help. She isn’t the shy type - until now.
The way things were going, the weekend might well prove interesting.
Muffled sobs echoed in the silence as Pearl rinsed out her things and hung them up. She folded her trousers and laid them on the desk before tip-toeing to the door. The sounds were close, as close as next door, echoing the loneliness and loss she had suppressed all week. Turning away and swallowing the lump rising in her throat, she got into the bunk and turned her face to the wall. Tears wet the pillow.
Twelve
Pearl shifted in her seat, looking around at the silent huddled figure squatting on her haunches against the wall. The blue chambray shirt and faded denim jeans swallowed her whole. The parish obviously did not incarcerate too many children or women under five feet tall. Her arms stuck out of the voluminous short sleeves like a five-year-old child’s in her mother’s clothes. She rocked, softly bumping against the wall. Pearl imagined she heard the soft, high-pitched keening, locked inside where Joo-Eun mourned her lost life, the sound whispering across the empty space between them. Pearl started to get up.
“Leave her be. She need to get used to bein’ here. She ain’ goin’ nowhere.” Betty clicked a domino into place.
“Do you know her?”
“Seed her kind before.” Betty took the last tile and studied her hand.
Pearl placed her last tile. “I’m going to read for a while.”
“Suit yourself.”
Picking up her book and shifting around so she could watch the Korean woman peripherally, Pearl saw Maureen get up and saunter towards the door. Maureen looked through the window as though expecting a visitor and meandered toward the stairs, taking a long looping stroll past the newcomer. Ten paces down, Maureen dropped d
own into a lotus position and closed her eyes, leaning her head against the wall. Pearl was not fooled by Maureen’s disinterested pose. There was no way that predator would let the prey get out of sight.
I know what’s on her mind, adding another member to her court.
With an ingrained ability to sense softness and malleability, Maureen sized up everyone as soon as they came through the door, offering smiles to some, cigarettes and candy to others like some GI overseas on leave, knowing just which brand of magic to use to tempt them closer and eventually into orbit around the sun of her benevolence. Joo-Eun did not notice she was being stalked.
The round of the day continued without any other changes or new inmates. Breakfast, lunch and dinner followed without incident. The women went into and out of the food line, ate their meals, bartered their food and returned to their scheduled program of activities: talking, writing, braiding and combing hair, walking paths between and around the tables and into the shoals, and going to the bathroom to take a shower or relieve themselves in an unhurried swim of boredom. All except for Maureen, who waved away any offerings of food. Going one meal without food was not unprecedented for anyone else, but not Maureen, and here she was giving up three meals to keep vigil.
Joo-Eun rocked and keened sotto voce; the sound was heartbreaking. Maureen got up and went to the bathroom, inching closer every time she returned. She had worship of a different kind on her mind and it showed in the avid gleam of her eyes. Someone should warn Joo-Eun of Maureen’s intentions, but no one would, not even Betty.
“Leave be. What’s goin’ happen is goin’ happen. She a growed woman.”
After dinner, a guard came for Joo-Eun. She had trouble getting to her feet and stumbled, nearly falling into Pearl’s lap. Pearl steadied her and stood up, putting her arm around the woman’s slight waist. She smiled down at Joo-Eun and offered to help her to the door, but she shook her head and patted Pearl’s hand, taking first one unsteady step and then another. The guard tapped her pen against the clipboard and watched dispassionately as Joo-Eun pulled herself along Betty’s table and to the door handle, wavering a bit before she raised her head and walked through the door as though so brittle and spent each move might be her last.
Among Women Page 11