My mind turned to our reunion. When I found I couldn’t keep my eyes off the door, I busied myself and looked over thematerials on the table, straightening the papers until I got the piles just so.
Weren’t long before footsteps sounded in the chapel. I glanced back up, hopeful for Jackson, only to be disappointed. An older gentleman whistled softly as he rolled in the breakfast-tray cart.
Eleven
A prisoner collected the dirty breakfast dishes, and the first group of twenty-four men filed in and took their seats around both tables while guards sat in chairs beside the door, chatting quietly.
I held out hope that Jackson would be in the next group or the one after. Standing, I said, “Good morning, gentlemen.” My nerves suddenly landed in my belly.
I gave the group a small, friendly smile. Studied the faces of each, finding some were seeking a salvation beyond these prison walls. The books would give them the chance to make parole. At this, I squared my shoulders. “Book Woman Cussy Lovett, at your service, gentlemen.”
One older man stood. “Why are you blue-colored, gal, and why ain’t ya teachin’ coloreds down there in the Bottoms instead of us?” He hitched a thumb toward the door. “’Cause if it’s catching, I’m fixin’ to hightail it outta here. Don’t carewhatextra privileges Warden Alton bribes us with to come to Library—”
“Sit down,” Officer Chandler commanded.
Reluctantly, the man plopped back into his seat while another grumbled, “Rather be on the yard exercising. If I wanted to learnt the lessons, I would’ve gone to school for ’em.”
Another inmate replied, “Johnny Stubs, anybody who’d cut off their own trigger finger to get out of the draft is dumber than a broom handle, and that cowpea brain of yours could use some eddicating.”
Johnny shot his fellow inmates a toothless grin and proudly lifted his middle digit in a vulgar salute. More of those salutes and salacious remarks circled the table. A few sheepish inmates shook their heads, guffawing, wiping the tears from their slap-happy mirth. Giddy for the brief interruption to escape their humdrum lives.
I walked over to the blackboard, picked up a piece of chalk, and wrote METHEMOGLOBINEMIA across in big letters.
I turned to the loud one. “Sir, I have a genetic disorder called methemoglobinemia.” I tapped the letters on the board and sounded it out twice and extra slow, watching the men try to lick at the big word.
“Ain’t no one,not one living soul, ought’a be saddled with a disorder that takes a fat-talking, two-dollared word.No, sir.It’s just quare, it is. Try an’ chew that one, it’ll eat the hairs right off your tongue.” The inmate whistled.
I smiled at that. “My doctor calls it Met H—and my color is not catching, gentlemen. It simply means my blood isn’t getting the same amount of oxygen as yours.”
“Don’t give a whit ’bout what ya have or don’t have, ma’am,” a younger man piped. “I’m here to learn my letters so I can write my girl, Becky, over in Bee Lick and get outta here with my reading certificate for parole. Been missing her kisses mightily,” he said in earnest, leaning over to snatch up a pencil and sheet of paper from the table.
Several men hooted, and with that, we began our first lesson.
One of many, each beginning with the word I’d written on the blackboard to put the men at ease.
I selected books for those who could read and settled them at the table. One group wanted to write letters, so I passed out stationery, asking if anyone needed my help before going on to others.
After helping several, I glanced around to see if he’d arrived.
In another group, an inmate rose and went over to the shelves and brought back three children’s books. “Ma’am, I grew up on Devil’s Jump over in McCreary County.”
“That’s fine country, sir.”
“I ain’t up for parole anytime soon. But I want to learn these books so I can read to my lil’uns when they visit.” He handed me new copies ofThe Adventures of Grandfather Frog,The Painted Garden,andThe Wonderful Wizard of Oz.
I ran my fingers over the title ofThe Wonderful Wizard of Oz, wishing I had one for Emmeline in Forensics. “Wonderful choices, sir.”
“Tommy is four, and my oldest, Ben Junior, is going on seven. Used to tuck them in with a bedtime story I’d concoct each night. Figured, well, maybe if I could read one of them books on visiting day, I could make it up to them.”
“Let’s see about getting you started. We can read over there where it’s quieter.” I nudged him toward the smaller table. Seated, I openedThe Adventures of Grandfather Frog. “Would you like to read it together?”
He nodded his head. And ever so slow, word by word, and in unison, we began the first story, “Billy Mink Finds Little Joe Otter.”
When we were through, I peered up at the clock, daydreaming about what it would be like to finally have Jackson arrive. I imagined him asking for a book, maybe pretending to need my help.
Thinking I should prepare for his visit, I hurried over to the shelf and plucked up the Yeats collection.
Twelve
