“Get some Mercurochrome from the medicine chest, and see that your wound is properly bandaged. Can’t have ya working in the kitchen with a blood infection. And with chocolate blood, at that.”
“Can I have a drop of honey to dress the wound?”
“You one of them mountain granny women who practice root witchery or sumthin’?”
“No, ma’am, but I learned about curing with the herbs and tonics.”
“I’ll get it for ya, kid. The men’s penitentiary has beekeepers raising hives over there for both prisons. We get plenty.”
When she came back with the honey, Waldeen didn’t say anything for the longest time. Then she pulled out a toothbrush from her apron pocket and held it up and wagged it in front of my face.
I shrank back. The bottom had been shaved down to a dangerous point, sharpened like an ice pick.
“Cussy”—she grabbed my arm and pulled me closer—“from now on, I want ya to carry this. Understand?” She dug out Raymond Chandler’sThe Little Sisterfrom my bag and walked over to the counter. Then Waldeen unlocked the utensil drawerand, much to my horror, took out a butcher knife and began carving out the center pages of Chandler’s thick book. When she had finished making a cover of pasted pages, she tucked the homemade weapon deep inside, added a cigarette and matchbook, and closed the book.
“For the nerves. You should really try ’em; they do wonders. Hell, kid, even the doctors tout ’em in them slick magazine advertisements.” Waldeen chuckled. “Ol’ Santa Claus too.” She held out the book.
“No, Waldeen—”
“Go on, take it,” she urged.
“Why would you help me?”
The supervisor didn’t say anything for a bit. Instead, Waldeen took a dishrag to the kitchen and wiped down the machines, stove, and cabinets, then hung it over the sink. She pulled out a covered dish from the electric refrigerator and set it on the counter. Drying her hands on her apron, she cocked her head. “Do you know about the cathouse down in Rosebranch? The one on Saltdigger Road?” She looked around, making sure we were alone. “I ran it under an alias. WallaceAnn Deen.”
“Madam Deen?” Why, everyone here and in states beyond had heard about the success of the infamous Rosebranch and what its notorious madam had done.
But I had a feeling I was about to hear something the rest of the country hadn’t.
Seven
Waldeen nudged us back to the pantry. Inside, she stroked her neck as the wisps of cigarette smoke ghost-tailed up between us.
A guard called out from the kitchen, “Waldeen, you save me a slice of Patsy’s chocolate pie?”
She stuck her head out the door. “Saved ya the biggest piece, Cap’n. Put it over there on the counter.”
He grunted, and we listened until his footsteps faded and the door thudded his departure. She stubbed out her cigarette and slipped into the kitchen. I heard a drawer open and slam close.
Waldeen came back and lifted a pint of whiskey from her apron pocket, unscrewed the cap, and took herself a long pull. “If you’re nice to the guards, sometimes they return the favor.”
She offered me a sip, and I shyly shook my head and waited for the unspooling of her story.
“Well, about Rosebranch, kid. I had myself a working girl named Clara. I grew quite fond of her. Clara was one of my best. Lots passed through, but she was a madam’s perfect whore.”
I stared at her, trying to dare myself to conjure up what theperfect whorewould be.
“But it didn’t last for long, no, sir.” She smoothed down her apron and sighed. “One year, I delivered her sweet baby boy into the world on a cloud-soaked June afternoon, surrounded by eight working girls as scarlet as the birthing sheets on her bed. Right there in my chandeliered bordello bedroom. It wassomething else.” Waldeen smiled, reminiscing. “I could never have babies, but I raised little William like my own his first two years.”
“The boy in your photograph.”
She nodded. “That’s William. He was a Blue just like you, though only on his hands and feet.”
A catch climbed into my throat, thinking about Angeline and Willie Moffit, my young library patrons who’d died in the hills. I’d adopted their newborn, Honey, immediately after. Honey was also like her pa, Willie, and this William, and what my kin called blue-eyed Marys, after the two-lipped blue-and-white wildflower. Their color is only shown on those parts.
“Kid, I know the color’s not a spreader. Any more than that broke arm of yours. People sure get foolish notions about things they can’t understand. That’s why I don’t mind sharing my empty cot.”
“What happened to Clara?” I asked, appreciative that Waldeen had rescued me from the bowels of the prison’s infirmary.
