by Susanne Beck
When she spoke again, her voice was soft and contemplative. "There are probably many who say that Briacci’s only getting what he deserves, and that Josephina, by extension, did too."
"No one deserves to die, Ice."
She turned to me, a wry smile lighting her eyes. "Remind me to argue with you about that one later."
I smiled back, backhanding her lightly on one arm. "Deal."
"They took me in when no one else would. They gave me food, shelter. Family. Just because I chose to move down a dark path doesn’t make that gift any less precious to me. I owe them both a debt, and I will pay it."
As her eyes took on that faraway glint once again, I found myself studying her hand which was placed flat against the white sheet of the bed. It was a strong hand, tan and well-veined, with long tapering fingers that were graceful and deadly in the same breath. Like a curious child, I placed my own atop it, wondering at the softness and warmth beneath my palm even as I laughed inwardly at the size difference.
When I turned my head, I found her eyes upon me, totally awake, aware and in the moment. I knew this time my heart would not be denied what it was so patiently seeking. Our lips met with an infinite sweetness that all but wiped out the primal carnality of our first encounter.
The warm softness of her lips covering mine in gentle exploration melted me inside, all but fracturing who I thought I was and birthing a new woman to stand in her place. Warm and wet, our mouths moved together in a graceful dance of turning heads and deepening breaths. My hand traced a line up the long elegance of her neck, sinking my fingers into the thick fall of her hair as I felt the tip of her tongue trace the seam between my lips.
My mouth opened under the teasing gesture and I took her in willingly, moaning softly as she mapped out what she found within with deft, sure, sensual strokes. My head began to swim, though whether it was from lack of oxygen or overwhelming emotion I’ll never know. I pulled away reluctantly, savoring the last taste of her as my head came forward to rest against one broad shoulder. "God . . . .that was . . . . Wow."
Her arm threaded its way behind my back and I soon found myself caught up in a strong embrace. A gentle kiss was pressed into the crown of my head and I relaxed against her, enveloped in a cocoon of warmth and tenderness. I listened to the music of her heart as it beat steadily just beneath my ear as I waited for the tingling that engulfed me to subside. I felt the warmth of her cheek as it rested against the top of my head and my eyes slipped closed in contentment. It was a bit disconcerting that my husband would have to die so I could find my home, but the truth was laid out plain for me to see.
Her low voice burred into my ear. "I’m sorry, Angel."
I tried to pull away, but her strong grip prevented me from moving, so I laid my head back on her shoulder and sighed. "Sorry for what?"
A wry laugh rumbled. "For lots of things, I suppose. Shutting you out. Keeping you at a distance when all you offered was help. But mostly for taking something that is so precious on a dare."
It was the opening I’d been waiting for for months and the paths that suddenly appeared before me were many and varied. Humor seemed to work best with her and so that’s what I tried first. "As I recall," I replied, adopting a dry-as-dust tone, "I was the one who dared you."
The wry laugh came again, vibrating against my body where our flesh met and merged. "Perhaps. But I knew what I was doing. Knew what I wanted. And I’m used to getting what I want." She signed. "But this . . .this is something that should never be taken. Not even as a joke."
My heart crawled into my throat, forcing the words hiding there out into the open. "So you feel it too."
There was a long beat of silence as I felt her own throat work against my head. "Yes," came the whisper after what seemed an eternity. Another silence descended, longer than the first. "From the moment we met." She shifted, bearing my body up to settle more comfortably against her. "I tried to ignore it. Tried to shove it down deep where the rest of my feelings are buried. Obviously, it didn’t work."
I was about to say something when the lights flickered, signaling lock-down in ten minutes. She squeezed me to her more tightly for a second, then her arms released and she moved away. I caught her hand and brushed a kiss on the back before placing it over my heart. "This isn’t over, you know."
Her lips compressed, obviously trying to bite back a smile as one eyebrow rose over a cerulean eye. "It isn’t, huh?"
"Not by a long shot." And with no hesitancy or fear, I moved closer, covering her mouth with my own, showing her in a kiss the passion that was hidden in my soul. Her hand slid down from its place on my chest, sliding over my left breast with a gentle touch.
Responding in kind, I touched for the first time in desire the breast of another woman. Soft and warm and pliant under my inquisitive fingers, I gasped into the kiss as I felt a responsive nipple brush against my palm. My thumb, of its own volition, gently brushed over the cloth that separated it from the warm flesh beneath and I felt her body shift closer to mine as a low moan whispered forth from her throat.
I was suddenly seized with a great need to feel the responsive flesh under my fingers and so I broke off the kiss, growling as I reached up for the zipper that held her jumpsuit closed. I managed to yank it down only halfway when the lights flickered once again and an anonymous voice crackled over the PA system, announcing lock-down in five minutes.
Dropping my fingers inches from their goal, my eyes found themselves glued to the magnificent scant inches of cleavage my efforts had provided. My mouth watered and the urge to bury my head amidst that tempting flesh to taste and smell was almost overwhelming in its intensity.
Shaking my head to fracture the vision, I looked up to find Ice looking back, the color of her eyes deepened to a stormy indigo that framed her dilated pupils like a corona around the sun. Her breathing was slightly labored and beads of sweat dotted her upper lip. God, but it was the most beautiful thing that I’d ever seen.
The sound of someone softly clearing their throat drifted through the pounding in my ears and I whirled around to see a blushing guard standing outside the entrance to Ice’s cell. "Ladies," she said almost apologetically, "it’s time for lock-down. You need to get back to your cell, Angel."
I turned back to Ice who was smiling that cockeyed grin at me. Believe me when I tell you that particular expression did nothing to damper my ardor.
"Angel . . . ."
"Alright! Alright. God." I had to tell my muscles what to do and was gratified that my legs retained enough strength to bear my weight up and off the bed. It was a close call, really, but they managed to get the job done. "Remember what I said, Ice. This is not over."
Her grin grew a touch smug. "I’ll remember," she replied softly. "Night, Angel."
PART 8
BUT IT WAS over. At least for the time being. True to her nature, Ice closed up once again, as if our evening together had bared too much of her innermost self to me. I won’t say I wasn’t disappointed, because I was. But I also tried my best to understand things from her point of view. Each delving into that battered soul gave me more insight into the woman that I was able to confess freely, if only to myself, I had fallen in love with.
But each baring of that soul came with a price to her and to myself. I suppose it’s akin to a leeching out of toxins in the body. You always need a recovery period just to regain the balance you’d lost.
In the meantime, I kept myself busy with my library work, my teaching, and even managed to allow myself to get roped into playing on the so-called "Inmate All-Stars" softball team that was set to go up against the guards during the first week of summer.
My status as an Amazon allowed me to speak to people I wouldn’t have dreamed of speaking with before. I listened to their concerns and questions and tried my best to help in any way I could. As I’ve said before, most of the Bog’s inmates weren’t hard core lifers. Most were young women serving short sentences for stupid mistakes. Though I helped as much as I could wit
h their continuing education scholastically, I wanted to do more to help prepare these women for their eventual lives outside these prison walls. With the help of the guards, several non-profit organizations, and the local universities, I was able to set up various classes for the inmates. Classes such as "Anger Management", "Parenting", "Household Budgeting" and "Career Paths" were, surprisingly, very well attended. It made me feel good to be able to have a positive effect on the lives of my fellow inmates, if only to do my best to make sure that once they left the Bog, they’d never return.
My second spring in the Bog also saw the first time I was able to intervene in a fight without assistance. And, in fact, I didn’t even need to resort to violence.
I was on my way to the laundry room to pick up some clean uniforms (and if you’ve managed to stay with me this long, you’ll no doubt remember my warning about prisons and laundry rooms) when I stepped into the outer antechamber and saw two inmates, both rather new themselves, standing over another prisoner who’d just gotten out of segregation. All three wore bruises of beatings past, the kneeling woman’s fresher and more vivid against the pale tone of her flesh.
I came fully into the room, letting my presence be known by the force of my stride. The kneeling woman looked up at me with a plea in her eyes; the others, anger. "What’s going on here?"
"I don’t see as it’s any of your business," one of the standing ones replied.
"How about if I say I’m making it my business. Does that help?"
The second woman released her grip on the front of her captive’s jumpsuit and started toward me.
"I wouldn’t if I were you. Those bruises can get a whole lot worse real fast."
Catching the tone in my voice, she trailed to a stop, looking at me questioningly, assessing.
"Well?"
She looked over her shoulder at her compatriot, who shrugged. Then she turned back to me and raised her hands in front of her chest. "Didn’t mean nothin’ by it."
"I see." I smiled. "Well then, I’m sure you won’t mind letting this woman get what she came for and leave, right?"
"Sure," said the first after a moment. "No problem."
"Good." I nodded encouragingly to the kneeling woman, who nodded back and struggled to her feet, her eyes still wide with fright. A further nod from me and she turned and walked into the laundry proper, reappearing a moment later with a stack of clean jumpsuits. Taking one last look at us, she bolted for the door. I could see the second woman, the one who had aborted her advance on me, shooting daggers with her eyes in the direction of the door.
"You know," I continued conversationally, "it wouldn’t be the wisest move to go after her once I’m gone. Do yourselves a favor and leave it alone. You’ll both be a lot happier, believe me."
"Who are you?" the first asked.
I could feel my grin widen. "My name’s Angel."
"Angel, huh?" said the second, appraising me once again. She was a medium-sized woman with lank brown hair which hung down over her eyes, which were currently squinting myopically at me.
"That’s what they call me, yeah."
"You don’t look so tough."
"Looks can be deceiving. You’re welcome to try and find out, though I’d rather go about this in a more adult fashion."
The second woman walked over to her companion and I took the time to study them both carefully. "Looks like someone came down on the both of you pretty hard," I observed. When they both turned angry looks my way, I held up a hand. "It’s alright. Happened to me too. More than once."
"Nothin’ happened to us," the first protested. "We just got . . . clumsy."
Though I wanted to laugh, I managed to keep it inside. "Yeah, I’ve been known to have a sudden attack of ‘clumsiness’ myself a time or two. Hurts, doesn’t it. Kinda makes you want to make others feel as ‘clumsy’ as you, huh?"
Now I had both of them squinting at me. "What in the hell are you talking about?" the second asked finally.
"I’m talking about beating up on someone because you’ve just gotten beaten up yourselves. I’m talking about how you think that’ll make you feel better about what happened to you. But I’m here to tell you that it won’t. The only thing that will even begin to make you feel better is to learn how to stand up to the people who hurt you. Not to become bullies yourselves. Because let me tell you something about bullies, ladies. There’s always someone a whole lot bigger, a whole lot stronger and a whole lot meaner than you around."
"You?" the first asked, snorting in disbelief.
"I’ll do for a start. But I’d really rather give you lessons on how to defend yourself rather than defend myself against you. Whadda ya say?"
They looked at one another, then back at me, obviously beyond knowing what to make of me. "Alright," they finally said, in unison.
My smile brightened. "Great! I’m out in the yard every day at eleven. A lot of my time is taken up by softball right now, but if I can’t help, I’ve got a bunch of friends who will. Meet me out by the free-weight area tomorrow and I’ll introduce you to them, alright?"
"The free-weight area? But that’s where the Amazons hang out."
"Exactly."
"You’re an Amazon?"
"Sure am." I’m afraid my smile grew a trifle smug, but, really, wouldn’t yours? Their expressions were tinged with a new emotion: respect, and it made me proud to be who I was. "So, do we have a deal? No more beating up on anyone?"
"Uh . . .yeah. Deal."
"Great! See you both tomorrow then." Brushing by them, I continued on into the laundry and picked up the uniforms I’d originally come for. When I came back out, they were both still standing there, staring at me. Giving them a final wave and a bright grin, I left on my way.
The prison grapevine was in perfect working order, as I found out when I walked into the library later that afternoon. Half a dozen Amazons and one elderly librarian converged upon me in an orgy of congratulations and back-slapping. I looked around in disbelief as they applauded me for the success of my first ‘solo’.
Raucous laughter and talk of ‘busted cherries’ accompanied the good natured teasing and had me blushing to the roots of my hair. Pony almost did me in when she pushed forward bearing a cupcake she’d scrounged from the commissary vending-machine, complete with lit candle. I was serenaded with "For She’s a Jolly Good Amazon", and the wish I made when I blew out the candle is mine alone to know.
* * *
As the warmth of spring gave way to the heat and humidity of summer, Ice began to come out of her shell once again, as if drawn out by the steamy days and balmy nights. We’d often sit outside near dusk, after I’d been given leave by the guards, and just talk, generally about nothing. It was obvious that the wound of Josephina’s death was still sore, but it appeared to be getting better, little by little.
Many times I found myself telling her little stories of me as a young girl. I hoped these would open her up enough to tell me some stories in kind, but that was a horse of a different color. Still, storytelling was something I’d enjoyed since I was young, even if I didn’t usually have any audience but my hated dolls..
Most of my stories centered around our summer cabin in the Canadian wilderness. I told her about the time that my mother’s parents had come to visit for a week and my grandfather had dumped all the dirty plastic eating utensils in the fire, stinking the house up for days. Or about the one and only time I’d gone fishing with my father.
My father didn’t think it was a girl’s place to fish, but lacking any other, more suitable, companionship one day, he grunted at me to join him in the small boat we kept tied to the dock. Fancying himself a master fisherman, he had a beautiful rod and reel and an expensive tackle-box with all sorts of fascinating lures, none of which I was able to touch lest they be tainted by girl-cooties or something. I was presented, with great pomp and circumstance, a simple bamboo rod with a length of wire and a small hook dangling from the end. I was also given a styrofoam cup of nightcrawlers and the ad
monition that I’d better not ask him to bait my hook for me. Apparently, my father’s notions of femininity didn’t extend to getting one’s hands dirty impaling worms on pointy hooks.
He took us out to a tiny island in the middle of the lake, where he dropped anchor and fixed his rod and tackle. He cast out into the clear blue water as I was still trying to figure out the best way to bait my own hook without getting worm guts all over me. I imagined I could hear the poor creatures cry out as I stuck the sharp point through their tough flesh and watched the blood ooze out of the hole I’d created.
Swallowing back the bile, I completed my task, determined not to give my father yet another reason to be disappointed in me. The very second I swung my line out, I felt a sharp tug and pulled up on the pole to find a nice-sized perch struggling on my hook.
That’s pretty much how the day went. Every time I dropped my hook, a fish seemed to latch itself onto it. My father, on the other hand, even with all his fancy equipment, managed to snare himself two bluegill and a perch too tiny to bother keeping.
To say that my father was in a bad mood two hours into the venture would be understating the fact. Without saying a word, he abruptly stowed his gear, pulled up anchor, and turned us back toward land.
That evening’s fish dinner was the best I’d ever eaten though my father looked like he was choking down every bite.
I even managed to get a rare, full-throated laugh out of Ice when I told her the story of the week we had some friends of the family up to stay with us. It had been raining all day and my mother and her friend had placed their shoes by the stone fireplace to dry out. Apparently, a chipmunk had chosen the fireplace as it’s summer nesting place. Even more apparently, it found my mother’s friend’s shoes a perfect retreat from the drudgery of its rock home.
