Turning to the wall, I muffled my sorrows into a flat pillow as the last leaving hour seeped through curtainless, barred windows, crawling into halls, swallowing the remains of the day.
The second hand on the institutional clock ticked loudly, sweeping its time into another lonely night, another lost soul, before smothering the titters of stale conversations and desperate fevered prayers.
Restless, I turned over and my gaze fell to Waldeen’s neatly stacked shadow of books.
Something from long ago stirred inside and began to take root.
I balled my palm over the frayed coverlet—unrolling, squeezing, and rolling—the comforting rhythm quieting inside.
For the first time since I’d arrived in early March, a small hope budded, and finally my restless body stilled and lids drooped as the last thoughts slipped into the quieter hours of slumber.
Two
Books: a sanctuary for my heart.
I’d found a small joy to have purpose again, though I know’d Pa would’ve scolded my temerity for pursuing such a notion if he were alive.
For two days, I waited to see the warden. After I finished my light chores in the kitchen, I’d ask permission from the officer on duty, and he came back with the same answer: “Warden is busy.”
On the third day, a guard finally led me into Warden Sanders’s office, my hands stained an ink-blue from anticipation, my mind racing with the proposal I’d rehearsed every day and now again in the long ticking moments I’d been waiting in the small alcove outside her office.
A ribbon of cigarette smoke escaped out the door as I stepped through its lingering haze into her office. I stood before the small, matronly lady seated at the large desk, my fingers laced behind my back, doing my best not to squirm under her piercing gaze.
Warden Sanders stubbed out her cigarette, her pale fingers discolored and yellowing. “You wanted to see me, Lovett?” she snapped, the annoyance flitting across her eyes, spotting her cheeks as she reached behind her and clicked the knob of an old walnut-stained Philco radio, silencing the staticky buzz of an announcer’s voice. She pushed aside a four-welled glass ashtray filled with butts and twined her clenched fingers atop the desk.
“Yes, ma’am. About the prison librarian position.”
She held up a piece of paper. “It says you were assigned kitchen duty. Are you trying to get an easy ride in here? Maybe thinking prison librarian would be a cakewalk?” she said harshly.
“No, ma’am.No.I’m keeping the kitchen books and doing whatever I’m asked until they cut my cast off.”
Her mouth tightened. “Lovett, that old mountain doctor may’ve had some pull from the governor to get you out of my infirmary, but you’re still here. And while you’re still here, I’m governorandGod. Is that clear?”
I flinched. Ol’ Doc from back home had visited me in the infirmary and made a fuss, insisting I be sent to the city hospital so he could examine me himself for the prison mistreatment I’d suffered. Then he’d demanded that the penitentiary medical staff stop examining me. But I didn’t realize he’d gone to the governor. “Yes, ma’am, it’s clear.”
“You think you can come in here without any qualifications?”
“No, Warden, I used to work—”
“Librarian is a great responsibility, with many duties involved.”
The telephone on her desk buzzed and she pressed a button. A man spoke. “The director is on line two, Warden.”
She lifted the black receiver and snapped, “Back to work, Lovett. And the next time you come looking for what youthinkis an easy job, I’ll load you up with kitchenandlaundry-room duties.”
***
Her threat came to light sooner than I thought, and not because I’d gone back to the warden. It was a warning to make sure I never would, and one I’d heeded. She’d gone and saddled me with double duties.
After I checked the numbers from ordering kitchen supplies and wiped down the tables, I rushed to my next job.
Inside the laundry room, hot steam scalded my face as blinding droplets dripped from my brow. Awkwardly, I set the electric iron down, bumping it against my flesh. I blew on the stinging burn.
My casted arm was still weak and pained, its strength slow to return. And the electric machine weren’t nothing like Mama’s sad iron. Instead, it felt clumsy, heavy, and I struggled with the long cord while trying to keep the blistering hot plate from burning me.
“Lovett, get those officers’ uniforms pressed, and stop your spuddling,” the supervisor ordered.
Again, I raised the iron and tried to press a guard’s white dress shirt. Suddenly, the stink of smoke drifted up, and I pulled the electric machine off the fabric. To my horror, I found a yellowish-brown scorch that looked like it might eat the cloth and disappear any second.
