The guard said I would be transported in the morning in a mutual exchange while several of their inmates worked on maintenance jobs here. He noted that most of the men had been instructed to visit me in the new library to get a bit of schooling.
He continued, “Warden Alton over there says the men will show their best behavior.Yoube on yours. You’ll need to tidy up the library if asked, organize and shelve books, andwork diligently to spread literacy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, Warden Sanders says it’s strictly voluntary, and if you feel that you’re too busy with your own work to leave, she’ll just pull in another volunteer and…”
I stood dumbstruck, hardly believing my good fortune—the chance to finally see Jackson. I could barely tamp down myexcitement, nor hide my rioting hands.
“Lovett, you okay?” The corrections officer narrowed his eyes. “Can’t approve this if you’re sick.”
“Just fine, Officer, and I’m happy to volunteer. It was a busy day and I’m ready to retire to my cot for the night,” I babbled.
“Be in front of transport at six sharp.”
“Six. Good evening, sir.”
It was anything but.
The sun set over the prison, casting shadows. The air grew more oppressive as the clanking keys and mournful cries echoed throughout the hallways. I tossed and turned at each little noise.
It seems I had barely drifted to sleep when Waldeen shook me awake. “You’re gonna miss that transport you talked about all night in your sleep unless you hoof it, kid.” She chuckled.
Scrambling for my clothes in the darkness, I rushed toward the shower room.
I couldn’t wait to see him, and my jittery hands fumbled with the buttons on the ugly prison dress and laces of my dull black oxfords.
***
Outside, dawn ignited Kentucky skies in apricot, pink, and glowing golds, heralding the new day and echoing my hopeful spirit. I couldn’t help but pause to breathe in its morning’s welcome.
Soon, a homesickness struck as I waited beside the automobile and looked out across the horizon. How I missed those hills back home. Longed for the forests and pine-treed canopied paths—the choral night songs of tree frogs and warblers climbing into the hymns of a fiddle, laddering a sweetness across Troublesome’s coal-black evening skies.
The hunger for homecoming burned, and I carried the fevered hope, letting the fighting tears scrape across my throat,feeding me.
The guard opened the door, and I slipped inside the back seat as a plume of stale cigarette smoke, mildewed seat coverings, and other tired smells enveloped me. I fumbled for the handle to open my window, only to find the crank had been taken off.
In a moment, he rolled down his own, and we pulled out of the women’s prison. I tilted forward and inhaled the grassy meadows, sweetened fresh hay, and earthy scents riding the May-morning breezes. Somewhere in the distance, dogs barked into a tractor’s steady hum, and I could see cows gathering in a field. To my right, horses grazed on lush bluegrasses behind white-board fencing.
Pewee Valley was pretty country, and when the guard slowed to take a turn, I heard the familiar call of the town bird belting out itspee-a-weee. Passing through, I peered out at the stately buildings and fine homes with sweeping verandas along shady tree-lined avenues. The automobile slowed on Central Avenue as other drivers paused in front of us.
I gawked at one sprawling mansion with a sign in front of it.
The guard glanced at the rearview mirror, following my eyes. “I see you spotted the Beeches. That’s the famous author lady’s home. Wrote all them books upstairs there, and fans still come to visit to this day.”
I’d read all thirteen of the Little Colonel series that Mama and Pa had bought me and then passed them down to Honey. Dreamed of visiting Annie Fellows Johnston’s beloved Beeches, which inspired the books’ settings. Now here I was, sitting smack-dab in front of it, eyes scanning the upstairs windows, wondering which room she’d written all her adventurous treasures in.
Behind us, a dairy truck blared its horn, and the officer jerked the automobile forward. I turned, stretching my neck until I could no longer see the big home. We passed a neatly tucked-in train depot as we crossed the tracks, and I looked back, my heart hungering for this life of oak-shaded streets and quiet.
I’d never seen such a tranquil little town. It was surely rippedstraight out of Mrs. Johnston’s story books and as romantic asThe Tenant of Wildfell Hall. A place of home and longing.
The officer drove on toward LaGrange to the men’s prison while I imagined the lives of all the fine folks living in even finer homes.
The towering homes and kept sidewalks became a blur, and I rubbed my fingers over the tips, tapping my thumb across each digit, peeking over my shoulder, circling, picking up speed—as I calmed myself into a steady rhythm.
In a few minutes, I turned to the countryside while my hands dipped into their rhythmic darker hues.
I lifted a palm to my face. Soon, my breaths steadied; the color faded into a pale blue.
