With each new group, I had watched and silently willed Jackson to appear. It was 4:55, a final class to go, and I held my breath as, one by one, the men filed in.
When the last inmate passed through the door, I quickly turned to the chalkboard and looked down at the grief painting my hands, suddenly pierced by cold shards tunneling inside, the hunger of missing him unbearable.
Don’t cry, don’t cry, I silently commanded, blinking away the single disobedient tear.
Fourteen
A shadow-draped moodiness pleated itself across the women’s prison and mud-swept grounds while librarian duties kept me busy the rest of May and into the rain-soaked month after.
The library had been left in disarray, still waiting for its fresh coat of paint. While I had been over at the men’s prison, Warden Alton had sent over his volunteers to drop off supplies. Paint buckets, brushes, and a ladder rested in a corner, and shelves had been pulled out from the walls, leaving it hard for me to maneuver around.
Kitchen duty, along with visiting the Death Row, Forensic, and Geriatric wards, took up most of my time, though I welcomed each hard-ticking second. Still, Sundays were the worst. With no friends or family visiting, and despite the clutter, I sought solace inside the library, selecting reads for the next visit with my patrons.
Though far from friendly, the guards stopped putting time limits on my visits to the wards and even encouraged me to stay longer. Officer Holt had softened somewhat and no longer made me ask permission before loaning a book to his inmates. And whenever I arrived to find some of the loudest women glued quietly to their books, he would marvel and remark quietly to another guard, and more than once, “Them books are better than anything them quack doctors have been doping ’em with.”
One week, I dropped in to find Officer Holt training a new guard. The unseasoned corrections officer held up a hand. “Backto your dorm, Grape Girl. Ain’t got no business here,” he said, barking me away.
Ignoring him, Officer Holt strode over to the crash gate. “She’s Cussy Lovett, our Book Woman, Officer Brown.” He fumbled with the keys.
“Books from this—this inkblot?” Brown sneered and crossed his arms. “That’s the last thing these harebrained females need. Can’t give ’em foolish notions that could cause more trouble for us. It’s too dangerous.”
Office Holt unlocked the crash gate. “The books are necessary,” he said firmly.
“Books ain’t nothing but hogwash. Waste of a smart fella’s time.” Brown flattened his lips.
Undaunted, Officer Holt swung open the gate.
“Them books and that blue devil’s gonna cause us nothing but trouble,” Brown hounded. “Mark my word, sir. My daddy said it’s downright dangerous having women read anything but the Bible orThe American Women’s Almanac, much less putting thorny notions into these bone-brained…witless females,” the new corrections officer spat.
“It’s necessary,” Officer Holt snipped.
Grateful, I lifted my chin two-man tall as I slipped past the guards and over to the caged women.
Brown started to protest again, but Officer Holt held up a shushing hand and roared, “Necessary.”
And for the first time in a long time, and even fewer times before than I could recollect,Ifelt necessary.
***
Inside Death Row, I sat on the concrete floor outside of Sassyann’s cell, the dank air sheeting us. We’d just finished readingMan’s Search for Meaning. I thought Viktor Frankl’s life inside a Nazi prison camp would give her meaning and purpose duringher difficult time. Offer her some comfort and hope.
Today, she was sullen when I handed her new notepaper. “I’d druther you readWhat Katy Didagain.”
Despite Sassyann’s lack of interest in the books, she was fond of the ol’ tale about the children living in Ohio. “I’ll bring it back next time. Let’s work on your writing some more,” I pressed lightly.
She sat beside me with her knees drawn, balancing the Bible for a writing surface to pen her letter. The guard had been letting Sassyann out of her cell while she learned. Sometimes when I read her books, he’d glance down from time to time from his glass-windowed box. Soon, he began opening his office door to listen to the stories too.
I watched while Sassyann worked earnestly on the letter to her sons. Twice, she had thrown the pencil down, pushed aside the spelling primer, and wadded up the paper, tossing it across the hall.
Smoothing out the wrinkled page, I studied what was causing the fuss. “It’s okay. Try again, you almost have it. You just need to change theUto anOhere.” I handed her another clean sheet and retrieved her pencil.
“It’s useless. All this work to learnt my letters, an’ they ain’t never gonna come visit or write back. Ain’t never gonna love me an’ sure as Sam-hell ain’t never gonna forgive me. I don’t know why I bother with them good-for-nothing boys not caring about their ma. Not nary a word in a decade, an’ here I did it all to protect them. Too stupid an’ too long in the tooth to be learnt anyway.” She pouted.
I hugged my knees to my chest and mused on something Mama’d taught me long ago about how everyone has sense; it was just learning how to use it. Finally, I said, “I know’d they’d love to hear from their mama. I’d give anything to hear from mine.”
“Miss mine too. Miss my sweet boys.” Her words breezed out in a rasp. She looked down at her ragged fingertips, rubbing a thumb across them, sighing. “But I don’t know what to say after allthem lost years. I fear my sweet boys done turned into strangers.”
“It’s not too late, Sassyann. Just three words:I love you.My mama always said, ‘Regret comes fast and forgiveness is lost when the simplest words from the heart stay absent.’” I held out the pencil.
