“JustLove, Daniel Presland,” he barely breathed, sliding the envelope over to me.
I smoothed down the paper and pennedLove, Daniel Presland. “It’s a fine Scottish name, Mr. Presland.” Neatly, I lined up the sides, creased and folded the letter twice, and addressed the envelope before passing it back to him.
Blushing, he pulled out a stamp, licked and pressed it on the envelope, and gave it back. “Can you mail it for me?”
Quickly, I stuffed it into my dress pocket. If caught, I would tell them the patron had left the room and forgot the letter. And as librarian, I felt obligated to mail it.
I watched the young man head toward the door, thinking about how folks argued that prison reform saves some but destroys others, and I shuddered at the thought of what it might do to young Daniel.
Another man came over and asked for help selecting a mystery book.
When I found one I thought he might like, he thanked me and checked it out.
I looked up at the clock.Where was Jackson?
Thirteen
Hours passed, and new groups came and went, but still no Jackson.
I could only nibble at my dinner. From the other table, Officer Chandler looked over at my tray. “Can I have Cook fix you something else, Book Woman? He’s the officers’ chef and the best of all our inmates. After he arrived, we found out he used to serve under the chef at Miller’s Cafeteria, and then at the fine Colonnade in downtown Louisville. It wouldn’t be any trouble to have Cook whip up something else, if you like.”
He’d been kind ever since I arrived, even let me use the guard’s lavatory when I needed while he waited outside the door.
“No, sir. Still a lil full from that fine breakfast I had at six thirty,” I lied, feeling even more nauseous. Anxious to finally see Jackson.
Throughout the afternoon, I’d helped the men learn their letters and read to them from the primer, urged some to write beginner words on the blackboard if they were able.
When the room quieted and some of the men had settled into their own reads while others lingered near the bookshelves, I stepped over to the window. Officer Chandler followed and pointed to the vast fields. “Over twenty-seven hundred acres, and a thousand of them used to plant vegetables.”
“It’s like a whole town.”
“You can see we even have a cemetery, named after its first occupant, chicken thief Henry ‘Chicken’ Montgomery,” he commented. “I’ll be over there by the door if you need me.” The officer excused himself.
I’d learned about it from the women’s prison. The graveyard was for inmates who had no family, and thought to be aptly named because prisoners know’d that even the orneriest feared above all dying alone in their own eternal embrace inside a forgotten potter’s field that would never so much as see the shade of visiting loved ones, nor the beauty of a silk death-anniversary petal.
Some whispered that the dismal graveyard also held the infants of the female inmates who’d come in pregnant and lost their babies shortly after. Squinting, I made out the rise of a small, fresh mound toward the back, then turned abruptly to the table.
I busied myself helping two men work on the alphabet, grateful for the new spelling primers the library had bought.
A hearty supper of cornmeal-dusted frog legs, stewed tomatoes, leather britches, and peach pie arrived late afternoon. I appreciated the frosted bottle of Coca-Cola they’d included on my tray and immediately took a sip, and another bigger one, the raw sweetness lighting a tingle as it slid down my throat.
It was a greedy gulp, and I dipped my chin to swipe away the memories of long sweetenin’ from home. It seemed to ease my nervous belly. I rubbed the thick green bottle, the droplets of ice disappearing under my thumb.
It was something else, seeing such a fine spread, and I couldn’t get over how the officers had a real chef from a fancy restaurant to feed them like this. The frog legs were tender, and the leather britches had been seasoned perfectly with ham hock and salt pork. Still, my appetite escaped, and I played with the well-prepared dishes with my fork, swallowing tiny pieces of food that didn’t agree with me. When I couldn’t force another bite, I set down a half-eaten piece of fried corn bread and passed the tray back to the prisoner who’d delivered it. “It was tasty, sir, but I reckon I’m still stuffed from the last tray.”
An inmate went around the room opening windows, letting in fresh, sun-soaked breezes. The burst of the afternoon’s energy lulled while my older guard, Sam, dozed off in a chair. Officer Chandler sat beside him, reading the newspaper in between sips of coffee.
I picked up books from the tables and took them over to the shelves. An officer poked his head into the room and peered around. Officer Chandler went up to him. “Help you, Captain?”
“I see you’ve had a busy day in here, Chandler.”
“Yes, sir. It’s been a successful one.”
The captain looked past him. “Where’s that Lovett inmate, the fellow who’s all into the books? I thought he’d be up here by now.” He strained his neck, searching.
A tremble took hold of my hands.Jackson.Surely he’d be here any minute.
The men walked out into the hall, and the conversation was lost.
