The men snatched up packs of cigarettes, the bag of BlackTwist licorice and candy bars they’d been gambling with, and scurried away.
Officer Chandler dropped the dice into my guard’s hand and said, “Made from toilet paper. The men dampen a crushed-up wad of tissue and mold it until it dries rock hard.”
My officer shook his head as he examined the homemade dice. “Looks real.”
The guard hurried us along to another room, where men exercised and lifted weights.
Officer Chandler called out cheerfully to the men as we passed, “Keep working on that penitentiary cut, fellas.”
The prisoners grinned and hollered back, “Yes, sir, Cap’n.”
He whisked us down another walkway, then stopped at a wooden door with a cross above it. “Miss, our new library is in another room behind the chapel. You’ll find we have it ready for your visit.”
We passed through a modest chapel with rows of folding chairs facing a pulpit and a large wooden cross and painted dove on the wall behind it. Each chair held a Bible and a stiff cutout cardboard fan stapled onto a flat wooden handle with an image of Jesus praying over rock that had been printed on it. I caught whiffs of smoke, and stopped alongside the wall in front of a narrow wooden table filled with pillar candles, studying.
“Every Sunday we hold Bible study classes. The men can visit any day for private prayer or to light a candle. Would you like to light a candle, miss?”
I looked at him, perplexed.
“Light a prayer candle for yourself or a loved one?”
I could only shake my head at the notion. The Blues had been unchurched for as long as I could remember. Mama’d given me lessons, and we held church and Bible studies in our home alongside Troublesome Creek, where she taught me to love my fellow man. Still, nary a single townsfolk or God-fearing soul loved us back, nor invited us into their fold, the town churches, or chapel-dotted hollers. Instead, we’d been shunned, damnedby preachers and congregations who cried out and called us heathens and immoral. And while Mama had continued my spiritual lessons in devotion, grace, and prayer, Pa taught me the gospel of those who carried their hate like a loaded rifle.
“Here we are,” Officer Chandler announced and opened the library door. Gaping, I found myself stitched to the threshold. The spacious room, filled with walls of polished wooden shelves brimming with books, was brightly lit by tall, narrow windows.
Chandler moved to the side. “Welcome to our library.”
I stepped over to a bookshelf, soaking up the reads, surprised that many were new. Picking up a book, I inhaled the fresh print, fanned through crisp pages.
A large wooden rack packed with magazines stood in the corner, and I spottedNewsweek,Reader’s Digest,Popular Science,Old Farmer’s Almanac, and even a copy ofTrue Detective. Two copies of theLexington Heraldnewspaper, along with theOldham Era, had been included, and I lingered to pore over the generous reading material.
On another shelf sat a collection of poems that brought back bittersweet memories of our wedding on that brisk October day in ’36.
Officer Chandler joined me. “You’ll find we have a lot of good material.”
I pointed to Yeats. “I have the same one in my collection at home.”
“We’ve got plenty of poetry. Some of the men like to use the poems in their letters back home. There’s even a children’s section for the children visiting their fathers.” He waved his arm toward the other bookshelves. “Warden Alton, along with a few trusted inmates on his library committee, selected each book. He wanted to make sure you have everything you need.”
“A library committee.” To think, we were struggling to get readers over at the women’s prison. I couldn’t imagine having a whole committee of inmates who would rally for a library.
“Volunteers handpicked by the warden himself,” he replied.
“It’s a fine selection of reads, sir. One of the best I’ve seen.”
“I’ll let the warden know. There’s a new blackboard for your use, and they delivered the chairs and two big tables in the middle—and the smaller round one over there—just yesterday.”
I circled the heavy rectangular table with twelve folding chairs neatly tucked under its wooden lip and admired the new furniture. At the head of another one someone had placed several primers, writing tablets, a stack of books, new magazines, and a leather chair at the end. Fresh sheets of notepaper and sharpened pencils were in the middle beside a pile of new envelopes.
“Warden wanted you to have comfortable seating.” Officer Chandler hurried over and pulled out the chair for me. I sank down into the rich leather, astonished that the men’s prison had received such generous funding, while at the women’s we barely scraped by, begged for castoffs and even torn books and ladder-made shelves.
“The men will be here shortly, and you’ll have about forty-five minutes with each group. We have several hundred. You’ll at least be able to see a good many today. Help those who are needing to learn how to read. Some may want you to write letters. Now, if anyone acts up, is disrespectful, just send them back to their dorm. Today you are acting as our librarian, and Warden has put you in charge. He wants the library to be a sanctuary. Treated as sacred as our chapel.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay then. We’ll get you a breakfast tray from the officer’s hall directly and let you get settled.” He looked over at my guard. “We’ll see that you get one as well, Officer.”
“Obliged,” I said quietly, trying to take in every inch of this fine library, marveling over the scent of fresh paint, polished woodwork and ink-soaked books, and the newness of it all. Jackson loved books as much as I did, and I know’d he wouldn’t miss the opening of this one.
