Emily smiled politely.She wasn’t one to frequent the beauty parlour for “styling.”A wet comb, some pins, and a touch of her mother’s spray were more her speed.“Thanks,” she said, standing to leave.
“Hey.”Maria held her arm, not unkindly.“I’m not sure what exactly your story is, but you seem like a smart girl.A bit plain-looking”—she took in Emily’s features—“but you could be pretty enough with your makeup done right, and that new cut.”
Emily tried not to feel offended.“Erm, thank you.”
“My point is, if you wanted to, I think you could get in with Mama once you’re out of here.She’d probably be happy to have you.”
Emily suppressed a laugh.June Jones being “happy” about anything to do with her seemed about as likely as a landslide in the middle of downtown.“I don’t think I’m her type,” she said.
1 December
Dear Mom and Dad,
Things have been much the same here since my last letter.We had fresh apples in October, which had me looking forward to Mom’s apple tart at Christmastime.I cannot tell you how much I miss her home-cooked meals.
I am very happy to report that after several months of dedicated effort, I have made a few friends who are keen storytellers, and I believe I have learned the lessons we had all hoped this place would impart on me, and which might benefit my future prospects.I look forward to seeing you all for Christmas in a few days’ time, and regaling you with tales of my reformation.
Your loving daughter,
Emily
EARLY DECEMBER, 1961
Emily was working alongside Gertrude in the factory, feeding the boring white fabric through the machine as the others around her whirred and thunked in a clamorous mechanical chorus.Under Gert’s tutelage, she’d gotten much better, and could now work faster, with fewer finger pricks and muttered curses, producing straight seams.These sheets were all for government institutions, and thus made by prisoner labour with the cheapest material available.Emily had read in the paper a couple of years before about a woman from Alberta who’d filed for a patent on an elasticized sheet that would cling right to the mattress.She didn’t like to think how finicky it would be to sew those elastics into the corners, and was grateful for the government’s bargain-bin approach to bedding production.
She finished the set she’d been working on, then stood to fold it, embracing the stretch for her back and arms as she walked to the long table at the front of the room, folded the sheet, and set it on the stack.
As she hurried back to her seat, she met eyes with June, two rows behind her, flanked by her two ever-present friends.June’s face was impassive.She hadn’t yet acted on her information about Emily’s identity, and Emily was grateful.June had said she wouldn’t do anything unless it gave her an advantage, so evidently, one had not yet presented itself.Emily could only hope that would hold out until her release on the nineteenth.
She was feeling an overwhelming sense of relief that the ordeal was shortly coming to a close, and also excitement.She had plenty of information for the story now, and—she thought with a little shiver of pride—much of it was similar in significance to Nellie Bly’s exposition on the Blackwell’s Island asylum: reprehensible treatment of inmates, revolting living conditions.The lice, vermin, and dreadful diet.Dr.Stone’s barbaric pelvic exams, and the infections.The baking summer heat and lack of any actual “reform” activity.The empty classrooms half-heartedly staged, like some long-forgotten and dusty dollhouse.The one thing she still couldn’tfigure out, though, was why exactly Stone had infected them to begin with, just to then have to provide treatment.It made no sense.
Like Bly’s exposé, this was a good story obtained in a bold way.Emily was a proper “girl stunt reporter” now, and that thought filled her with satisfaction.She smiled to herself.She could hardly wait to get back to normal life, return to the office, where she would make a name for herself and—almost certainly—receive a promotion, maybe even to a junior staff writer.
After the factory, Emily was due for what would hopefully be her last treatment in the infirmary, where Stone would sign off that her infection had cleared.Just before the bell rang to signal the end of the shift, Matron Lockheed swept into the room and over to the desk where the matron on duty sat.After a brief exchange, she stood.
“Matron Lockheed will read out some names.If your name is called, you will accompany her to the infirmary for routine examinations.”
Emily’s eyes snapped to the clipboard in the matron’s hands.
“Irene Fox.Anna Lawrence.Louise Beaumont.With me.”
Irene and Anna were June Jones’s new compatriots, and Louise was one of the girls who had come over from the St.Agnes maternity home back in the summer, due to give birth any day now.She was built small like Eliza, slim little shoulders and no hips with a huge rounded belly in front.She looked like a child playing house, with a pillow stuffed beneath her shirt.No girl that age should be pregnant, and Emily didn’t want to think of how her condition had come about.
“Why them?”June’s voice boomed from behind.Emily turned to face her, along with most of the other women.No one else ever talked back or questioned the matrons, but somehow June always got away with it.
“None of your business, Jones,” the matron on duty said.The bell rang shrilly near the door.“That’s it, clean up and get a move on to your next shift, girls.”
Emily swept up the errant white threads on her workstation, set the thimble and measuring tape in the little tray beside the machine, and got in the queue to return her scissors to the matron, who checked off each inmate’s name before they were allowed to leave the room.
Outside in the hallway, Emily ducked into the bathroom to pee as she puzzled over June’s reaction to her girls getting called to the infirmary.She washed her hands, then made her way quickly upstairs to the second floor.June, Anna, and Irene were right at the front of the line outside the infirmary door.
Emily took her place at the back.The little Louise came up the stairs a moment later, clutching the railing for support.She paused at the top to catch her breath, belly heaving, before falling into line behind Emily, who offered her a small smile.Emily felt she should say something comforting, but she had no idea what.
She turned again to face the front, leaning one shoulder on the brick wall.Noise from the floor below was drifting up the stairwell.A psych prisoner shouted something from down the hall.Emily wondered what serene silence would feel like, and savoured the idea that it was coming.
The infirmary door opened, and Emily straightened, alert.She strained to see around the heads of the women in front of her.June was at the front, saying something to the matron.She went in, and the door shut with a snap.
Not five minutes later, it opened again, and June sidled out, her face inscrutable.
