Among Women

by J. M. Cornwell

  Pearl dreamed her father tucked her into bed and whispered, “Everything will be all right. You’re stronger than you think.” And she slept.

  For the first time since ending up on the quad, Pearl slept through lunch and woke shortly before dinner. Her stomach was calmer, but she was not ready to try food. She got a tray and left it on Betty’s table. Some of the women raced over and grabbed what they wanted while Pearl sipped the weak tea—without sugar.

  Watching her fellow inmates, she wondered how they all coped with the endless days stretching away into the far distance. At least they knew how long they would be there and what was going to happen; Pearl had no idea. Since no one had come to visit, it was becoming more and more obvious no one knew where she was. No one cared whether she was dead or alive. Lost in the system and caged among all these women, she was alone and friendless.

  Until she saw a judge or a lawyer, she would not make any plans. Tomorrow she would go to court and get out. One day longer.

  Wait. Something was wrong, something she should know. It was hard to keep track of the days. The week before had been Christmas on . . . Tuesday. She worked a half-day before and the following three days, got paid and then jail. That meant today was—she counted on her fingers—the thirty-first. There would be no court tomorrow; it was New Year’s Day. She would not have to work and that meant she had an extra day. One more day’s reprieve. It might be enough to save the job.

  As soon as it dawned, the sun crashed. Even if she saw the judge first thing on Wednesday, two days absence after one week of work meant the company would send someone else.

  Okay. She could not go back there. There would be other jobs when she was released. She could go back to the temp agency. She had skills. She would be placed. She could put the past few days behind her and focus on the future. If there was a future.

  The feeling of abandonment threatened to overwhelm her. How was she going to handle an endless vista of days without going mad? Well, there was Betty.

  Dropping bits of homespun wisdom and gallows humor between hands of cards or dominoes, Betty kept Pearl’s thoughts far from madness. It was difficult to be morose when Betty was so generous with her time and her talk. Sitting in her corner, nothing escaped her. From anyone else, it would have been gossip. From Betty, it was wisdom from close observation.

  The slap of cards on the table drew her attention.

  “Who that ho’ think she foolin’? Ever’body know she been stickin’ her nose up that girl’s cat the whole time they been down there. Ain’ foolin’ nobody.”

  “Who do you mean?”

  “That ho’ wif all them freckles. Letty. Ever' time she come up in here she gots to find her a white girl. Cain’t stick wif her own kind. Won’t settle for no brown girl either. Gots to be white. White cat don’ smell no dif’rent than black cat. Some smell worse, black or white.” Betty sucked her teeth and laid down her cards. “Gin. Boo, you ain’ payin’ attention for true.”

  Most of the time Betty was quiet and she had a keen eye. She had been in jail long enough to see most of the inmates at one time or another. Every time a new appeal was heard, the parish deputies brought Betty down to New Orleans from Angola and to the same quad. The deputies didn’t bother her and she kept to herself and followed the rules.

  “I don’ mess wif them and they don’ mess wif me. That how you keep on the good side, boo.” Betty chuckled, a deep low rumble that bubbled up and out like thick crude oil. “Fool ho’ don’ know what’s good for her.”

  “What?”

  “That a nasty little ho’.”

  “Which one?” Pearl looked up.

  Betty pointed to a lanky, long-legged woman with black hair, a stripe of red roots down the center part and skin the color of ashy dirt walked past with a loose-jointed gait as though her bones were fitted with rubber bands. “That one. Joy. Done changed it from plain ole Joyce ‘cause she think it sound better. Ain’ no better. She a triflin’ ho’. Don’ never trust no red nigga. She be the one takin’ yo’ sugar.”

  “I don’t mind.” Pearl shuffled the cards.

  “Don’ get too close wif that one. She steal the gold right out yo’ teeth.”

  “I don’t have any gold in my teeth.”

  Closing her eyes and shaking her head, Betty sucked her teeth. “Jes’ don’ let that sneaky ho’ get too close. Ought not give her yo’ sugar. She gets to likin’ it and you decide you wanna keep it, she be ready to stab you in the back fus’ chance. Best keep yo’self and yo’ sugar to yo’self. When she ain’t stealin’, she be puttin’ them skinny fingers o’ hers in places they don’ b’long. She so nasty she lick a bloody cat fo’ a taste o’ sugar or a extra bite o’ bread. That fo’ true.”

  It took a few seconds for the words to make sense. Cat? There are no cats in here. Just as she was about to ask what Betty meant, Pearl remembered her first shower. The girl with the withered arm who was deloused and showered when she was. Some of the black women at the picnic table next to the showers kept laughing and yelling something about a bloody cat. The hippie girl grinned at them and rubbed the soap between her legs. Pearl had blushed and looked away, but not before noticing a red trickle snaking down the hippie girl’s chubby thighs. Bloody cat. She had been on her period, so bloody and . . . . Oh. Pearl blushed and covered by sorting the cards. Puss in boots. Cat. It finally made sense.

  “Keep outta da way and don’ let Joy catch you out.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “She gots her ways. Sometimes doin’ stuff fo’ the guards. Bes’ keep outta the way for true.”

  Betty’s observations kept her occupied most of the time and embarrassed the rest of the time, but Pearl stopped feeling sorry for herself. The faceless women began to take on color and shape. The blur of dazed features took on depth and personality. For an hour or two, she stopped contemplating the bars and painted-over windows. The growing darkness that threatened to drag her down became less of a nightmare and more a fading dream that dissipated on waking. It took everything inside to keep despondency from taking root and growing, but she managed by staying busy.

  Tamara helped by making Pearl angry every time they cleaned the cell. Clean the toilet; polish the desk; mop the floor. Her strident scolds kept Pearl from falling into the abyss.

  Oh, to be able to make the rounds. Even giving plasma began to look good, as long as it was far from cinderblock walls and steel-barred windows and doors. She welcomed Betty’s observations and Tamara’s bossing.

  What felt like the slow, relentless pounding tide of years, were hours in real time. Check that; there was no real any more. On the quad, Pearl was Sisyphus pushing the boulder up the hill all day and Prometheus chained to the rock while a ravening eagle tore at his liver at night. Her life would be lived in the darkest corner of Hades where the strongest souls were mere wraiths clinging to hope with broken, bleeding fingers. Would she become one of the mumbling, wandering kind with stringy hair like ragged curtains hiding her eyes?

  Racing feet shushed across the dingy tiles. Someone was getting out. She must have missed the call to roll out.

  A head ridged with soft brown cornrows dipped low. The woman took the paper bag and pulled out street clothes, removed before showering and delousing, stuffed in a sack and taken away. She clutched them to her breast, her face wreathed in smiles, and rushed off, unbuttoning her shirt and taking the steps two at a time. She was nearly undressed when she reached the upper tier. What emerged from the cell a few minutes later was a butterfly.

  Sleek and shining waves framed a pretty face made sophisticated by artfully applied make-up. Flitting from picnic tables to steps, she left gifts from the paper sack: sugar, coffee, packets of Kool-Aid, deodorant, and toothpaste. Giggles burst from glossy, wet pink lips. Smoke-shadowed eyes and mascara-darkened eyelashes squinted with happy smiles. Hugs were exchanged and notes passed from hand to hand.

  “She’s wearing a wig.”

  Looking up, Betty glanced her way. “Uh
huh.”

  It looked like a very expensive wig, maybe human hair. The clothes looked expensive as well, gaudy, but expensive.

  “I’ll write,” she said. “I promise. I’ll call your kids and tell your momma you’ll be out soon.” Wistful eyes followed her as she dipped and soared, touched down and flew toward the door. “For true, I ain’t coming back never no more.”

  Butterfly sleeves of brilliant scarlet dappled with turquoise and gold fluttered with every gesture, leaving a trail of other worldly scent in her wake. One by one, those inmates not close to the woman rose, following their noses, questing hounds carried along by a bright smell until a pack gathered and followed.

  At the door, she handed both sets of blues to the waiting guard, turned one last time and waved. “I’ll see you soon. I’ll wait for you, Anne Marie,” she said and was gone. A faint hint of sweet spring flowers wafted past Pearl and Betty. The steel door clanged and all was silent for a few minutes. With obvious reluctance, the pack fell away in ones and twos, returning to their usual runs, putting distance between them and the door.

  Pearl wondered how the woman must feel. She imagined a gauntlet of paperwork before walking down the corridor and out into the sunlight. The woman was free to sin no more. Would she keep her promises? Would she come back? If the butterfly returned, it would resume the caterpillar’s nondescript institutional blue cocoon and have her hair plaited in cornrows. She would sit on the stairs and at the tables, silent and dulled, gestating, waiting.

  “A few come back, grinning like fools, jes’ like them there.” Betty jerked her head at the quad door. “They ain’ been out no mo’n a week.”

  Two women stepped into the quad between two guards and walked to the showers in their revealing strolling finery. Once bathed and deloused, dressed in blues and carrying a second set of institutional blues, they were rushed. Several women crowded around, hugging, patting and kissing them like long lost friends. Another unsuccessful criminal back for a working vacation to learn new tricks and trades on the parish’s dime.

  “They come, they go and they be back up in here fo’ they kin spit. That ole butterfly be back. Jes’ watch. Sometime like a revolvin’ door in here.” Betty sniggered. “Jes’ like a revolvin’ door. Spin ‘em in and spin ‘em out and back in.”

  In the butterfly’s wake, another woman strode through the door. Head up, a confident smile on her face, a blue-clad woman stepped through the doorway, transfer from another quad.

  A cry of excitement and welcome broke the buzzing hum of scattered conversations. The stairs emptied and the pack leapt to greet her. Pearl expected them to raise the woman upon their shoulders and carry her around the quad. Instead, bags and boxes were handed over and the pack parted as though making way for a conquering hero. Betty kept playing cards and didn’t turn her head or acknowledge the new arrival.

  "You done got him good, Maureen?" asked a blonde with her thin, pale hair in intricate, looping braids that accentuated the delicate column of a slender white neck.

  "He won’t touch anyone again, not with that steak knife in his neck."

  The blonde smiled and shook her head. "Should’ve stopped the last time you got him." She took Maureen’s arm and walked ushered her to the stairs. The hair-weaving girls descended on her like a flock of blue jays and crows, keeping a respectful distance.

  "Who's she?" Pearl asked.

  Betty chewed her gum and sucked her teeth as she picked up a card from the discard pile. "That Maureen. Cain’t b’lieve she done stuck that man agin."

  "Gin." Pearl laid down her cards.

  "Girl, you getting’ too good." She scooped up the cards and handed them to Pearl. "Yo deal."

  "Who? Her husband?"

  "Uh huh. This the third time she done stabbed that man since I been knowin’ her. She don’ never make it up to Angola where they gonna stick me in a coupla mo’ months. Last time she got ninety days, he done picked her up at Central when she got out. Some men ain’ nothin’ but borned fools."

  Pearl dealt out the cards and excused herself. "I'll be right back." She took the stairs at the far end of the quad to get a closer look - and to listen.

  There was no doubt in her mind that Maureen was not the average criminal even though she murdered her husband in what sounded like a very cold-blooded fashion. She certainly didn’t act like a murderer, more like an avenging angel, a powerful avenging archangel.

  On the way down the steps to the lower tier, Pearl stopped just out of sight and listened as Maureen told her story.

  Seven: MAUREEN

  Blood on the knife, mixed with meat fibers from the steak she had cut moments ago, dripped on the floor and all over her hands.

  “You do not put your hands on me.” She wiped the blood on his shoulder, shoving him back to the floor when he tried to get up.

  One pleading hand reached up and touched her thigh. “Help me.” A sharp-toed leather shoe lashed out and drew blood from his stubble-darkened chin.

  “You just do not learn.” She jerked her leg back. “Unless you got love on your mind, do not put your nasty hands on me. Ever.”

  Blood-slimed hands pushed the moaning hulk from the floor, feet slipping in crimson pools. “ Don’t you tell me nothing, bitch.” From somewhere inside his male pride, anger gave him the strength to stand. He tackled the woman, grappling for the knife. “Give me that.” They wrestled for the knife. “Obey me or I’ll get the strap.”

  She twisted out of his grasp and rolled over on top of him, pinning him between hard muscled thighs. “Obey this.” The knife plunged into his chest, punctuating each word. “Keep your damn hands off me.” Blood sprayed her face and chest. Down came the knife. His shirt shredded as he struggled to get away. He was getting weaker and weaker, a river of blood coursing across the shoulders and down onto the shiny parquet floor. His fists beat at her. She batted his hands away, slicing the knuckles and wrists of both hands. Deep chasms opened from wrists to forearms, slashing through the blood-matted tangle of hair on his arms.

  Bringing the knife overhead in both hands while straddling his protuberant belly, she brought the blade down with such force it clinked on bone. She bounced a little as the air whooshed out of his lungs. Her adversary was silent, a quiescent bloody lump.

  Torrents of blood trickled to a stop beneath her Italian leather shoes as she rose gracefully and dropped the knife in the sink. Cold water sluiced down, clear becoming scarlet as it carried clots of blood and gristle and pallid bits of purple-veined gobbets down the drain. Bloody hands reached for the soap. Pink lather covered both arms to the elbow and foamed down the drain. She breathed in the scent of orange-scented soap now faintly tinged with hot copper. Steam rose from the gleaming stainless steel sink. Manicured fingers turned down the hot water tap and turned up the cold water.

  The pale pink foam lightened steadily to white, swirled down the drain and over the wicked shimmer of the knife blade. Plucking a clean towel from the rack, she carefully dried her hands, pushing back the cuticles of each fingernail with the towel. Off came all the rings: the emerald cut diamond set in platinum, the beating heart of a ruby nestled in a ring of diamonds and the diamond and platinum wedding band. Each ring was dried and replaced on long slender fingers with care before the water was turned off.

  From under the sink came the cleanser and a sponge to scrub and rinse the countertop and sink until they shone. “Nothing I can do about the floor.” She stepped over the huddled body and tiptoed through congealing puddles of blood. She picked up the phone and dialed 911. “My husband’s dead. Would you send a car?”

  She sprinted up the stairs and took off all her clothes in the bathroom, tut-tutting at herself in the mirror over the sink. Closing the door, she surveyed the damage in the full-length mirror. “No sense letting the blood set in these clothes.” The second hand tick-ticked around the face of the diamond watch. “Just enough time to shower and change.”

  Bloody clothes went into the sink and were immersed in cold water. A
thick fluffy towel was unfolded and draped over the shower door. When the water was warm, she stepped into the cleansing spray. Raising her face to the spray, speckles of blood wept down her cheeks, turning to rivulets as they coursed down the cataract of her breasts. Singing lustily, she shampooed and conditioned her hair, rinsing out the suds, untangling the snarls with her fingers. She bathed, luxuriating in the rich, thick foaming sea sponge that replaced the charnel house reek with the scent of Chanel #5. “Amazing Grace” soared up on a warbling trill that sent the notes skirling through the steam, defying gravity. When the door bell rang fifteen minutes later, Maureen fingered shining mahogany waves into place, smoothed the folds of a cool linen skirt and silk blouse into place, twirling in front of the mirror, adjusting a seam here and a wrinkle there. Trailing a fresh, fragrant cloud of steam, she went to the bedroom and slipped into low-heeled sandals, descending the stairs to answer the door.

  “You’ll find him in there. He’s a bit of a mess.”

  “Not again, Maureen.” The slender, copper-headed cop frowned. “Why don’t you just get a divorce?”

  “No need now, Officer O’Connor.”

  The officer held her coat for her. When she turned around, she held out her wrists for him and he snapped on the cuffs.

  Eight

  Taking advantage of a lull in the story, Pearl rushed to her cell and cast around for something to take with her. She settled on going to the bathroom, washing and drying her hands and retracing her steps in case Maureen had more to tell.

  No one had moved. All eyes were focused on Maureen.

  One bold soul, probably not more than eighteen and openly curious, shattered the silence. “How long did they give you?” she asked in a breathy voice.