“I once had a pet goat named Wilbur. Always stuck to my side like beggar’s tick. Can we keep the loan?” Geraldine stretched out a wobbly arm.
“I’d like a book,” Bess said.
“If Bess and Gerry gets one, I want one too,” someone else piped up. “Ma never could afford ’em when I was growing up.”
“Same, Dottie. We were so poor I had to steal scraps from the dog bowl,” a reed-thin woman told the inmate beside her.
Several more chorused “I’ll take a book” and “Me too.”
Finally.My veryfirstpatrons.
I all but tumbled over to Geraldine to hand her the book, then quickly fished inside my bag for more. Still, I looked to the inmate slumped over, babbling to herself.
The woman named Dottie caught my eye and said, “That’s Chaney—or what’s left of her. Prison done went and gave her one of them lobotomies.”
I stared, horrified for the younger woman.
“She tried to stab two inmates. They do it to all the crazy ones too.” Dottie circled a finger over her temple. “Even to some of the ones who ain’t”—she leaned toward me and barely whispered—“dutiful, or gets too lippy with ’em.” Her old eyes warned.
Beyond Chaney, a feeble woman watched in silence.
After I wrote down everyone’s names and their books on the index cards to catalog, I looked again at the women sitting alone in the back, smiled, and motioned to her.
The birdlike woman held back and refused to roll her wheelchair over to the bag of books. I walked over to her. “Ma’am, would you like a read today?” A waft of foulness lifted. She grimaced, and I could see she was in pain. “Ma’am?” I took another step and she flinched.
I hesitated, thinking I’d scared her.
Then a tear dropped, wetting her pale cheek. “The morning guard wouldn’t let me relieve myself when I asked. Now I’m soiled.”
The officer strolled over and wrinkled his nose. “Dammit,not again, Marigold,” he said, the disgust souring his voice. “The nurse’s aide won’t be here for another two hours.”
Marigold bowed her head and wept quietly.
“I’ve a mind to order you an ice bath.” I followed as he jerked on Marigold’s wheelchair, swung it around, and then pushed it across the room and into the washroom. Another hard shove and he let go, and Marigold and the wheelchair went crashing into a large metal bucket shaped like a horse trough, empty and waiting to be fed its next meal of ice and a warm body.
She moaned.
“You can just spend the afternoon alone in your own stink till the aide comes,” he said.
I stepped in front, hoping he wouldn’t pick up the frail woman and dump her into the trough. “Sir, since I’ve finished my reading for today, I can help Miss Marigold clean up.”
He seemed unsure and darted his eyes between us. Then: “Be quick.” He left with a disgusted breath curling into the air.
I opened one of four stalls, saw an enamel washtub, and turned on the faucets. Lifting her out of the wheelchair, I helped her over to a sink while the tub filled. Marigold gripped her corded necklace of a blackened crucifix while I slipped the cotton shift over her head. I sucked in a breath, horrified by what I saw. Her pale buttocks were pocked with oozing, angry bedsores caked in feces. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I tried to hol’ it…” Her apologies were warbled, soaked in shame and agony.
“We’ll have you freshened up in no time, Miss Marigold. First let’s wipe you down, then get you a warm soak so you’ll feel better,” I soothed, fighting back the bile threatening to rise. “No timeand you’ll be feeling better, and then I’ll leave you with a nice read.” I raised my strained words, chatted lightly, trying to distract her with book suggestions, fighting to swallow down the anger sloshing against the threatening heave in the pit of my stomach.
She clung to the basin—naked, trembling, and quietlysobbing—while I took a soapy, wet cloth and carefully washed down her backside, bottom, and legs.
Gently, I helped her into the tub.
Again, I soaped the rag and washed down her back. “Do you have any favorite books, Miss Marigold?”
She coughed out a strangled reply, her words drowned.
When I had finished and covered her wounds with an ointment the guard had reluctantly fetched, I helped Marigold into a fresh prison gown and clean necessaries, the garments baggy and swallowing her small frame.
“Maybe we can find you a good book now,” I said, wheeling her back into the common area.
