I shoved the jar into the bottom of my bag. “I’m headed to another wing, where I’ll be searched. Hold the book for me until I can tuck it inside my footlocker tonight.”
I would never use the weapon, but I know’d just what to do with the big jar of honey.
In the hall, I passed the guard who had taken me out of the prison infirmary in April. He scowled, reminding me again of the horrors I was about to visit next.
Weren’t nothing that could keep him from locking me in Forensics. After all, he’d already cursed me by calling me acrazyblue witch, and one misstep was all it would take to prove him right.
Tucking my head, I thought about Dottie, the woman in the Geriatric Ward. “They do it to all the crazy ones, lippy ones.”
They could experiment to erasemy crazy bluenessby performing a lobotomy on a whim. The surgery that could cause more than silencing the tongue. It could bring blindness, inflict pain and even death to the ones doctors and government had deemed the pariahs of their moral and godly society.
Terrified, I vowed to try to keep my head good ’n’ tucked, lips stiff, and legs starched to toe the line.I had to make it out of here alive. I had to make it back to protect my daughter so that these horrors would never happen to her.
Eight
Women clutched the bars of their separate cells. Some clawed. Others wailed and spat and shrieked while tugging at thinning patches of scarecrow-ish hair as I walked through the Forensic Ward.
The guard rummaged through my bag of books, barely glancing at the titles.
“You can start your reading down at the end. Grab yourself a chair if ya need to. But if you rile them up, girl, ya ain’t coming back,” Officer Frank Holt warned, hardening his jaw.
The air in there felt different from inside the Geriatric Ward. Desperation, darkness, and terror wallpapered the concrete walls.
“I’m Cussy Lovett, your Book Woman,” I murmured to the women. I stopped at the end in front of two locked cells and pulled outPale Horse, Pale Rider, struggling to raise my voice above the loud agony and gloom crawling over the ward. One prisoner was curled up on her cot, and the other, a young woman, held a ragged cloth doll and clung quietly to the bars, her wild hazel eyes drugged and protruding.
I read the first short story, and after I’d finishedNoon Wine, the young girl said, “The Wonderful Wizard of Ozis my favorite.”
“It’s a grand book. Who is your favorite character?”
She grinned slyly. “Scarecrow.”
“Smart character for a smart young woman like you. I’m fond of Tin Man and his big heart. Maybe I can get you a copy.”
She blushed and then asked, “Can I have that book?”
Stepping closer to the bars, I held it up to her outstretched hand.
Suddenly, Officer Holt sliced a muscly arm through the air, breaking our hold. The book flopped to the floor with the slam of metal, skin, and bone. The tearful girl howled and lifted a limp hand, dangled a reddening finger gingerly holding her doll.
“Emmeline, back to your cot. You, Lovett”—he stabbed an angry finger in front of my face—“ya don’t give outanythingin Forensics without permission first. Next time, I’ll throw your sorry blue ass in lockup for a gawdamn week.”
“You hurt Baby Mason.Mason, Mason,” she wailed and pressed the doll to the bars.
My mouth dried up as fear coated my tongue. Finally, I scraped out, “Yes—yes, sir. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Then ask! She’s a gawdamn firebug,” the guard said, exasperated, danger flitting across his eyes. “Done tried to kilt a bab—” He stopped abruptly, wiped a furious brow, not daring to say more. Suddenly, his eyes showed a hint of regret, a sorrow, and I remembered he’d just lost another child. “Gawdamn crazy firebug!” he spat.
At this, Emmeline sobbed loudly, as if his accusation pained her more than the physical injury.
Officer Holt picked up the book and fanned through the pages several times before tossing it inside Emmeline’s cell. It bounced off her head. “Stop throwing a hissy, Emmeline, and get it ’fore I change my mind.Git.” He knocked his hard-toe shoe against the iron bars.
Whimpering, she rubbed her reddened forehead, then crept over to pick it up.
“You gonna read or waste time ogling into space?” The officer snapped his wrist toward the other women. “Back to work, Lovett.”
I moved to the next cell and pulled out a book. I stopped when a girl in braids, looking no older than twelve in a shapeless,soil-stained dress, softly recited the next lines of “Song of Myself.”
“I see you like Whitman. What’s your name?” I asked and thought of Honey.
