Among Women

by J. M. Cornwell

  Like a carefully fostered ember, she nursed the hope that for the first time in her life someone pay attention and the words would make a difference. Even if she couldn’t help herself, there had to be a way to help some of the others, even if it was saving their stories. Someone has to do something. Their situations tugged at her heart, making her own predicament seem a little less important. It gave her something to do, something to concentrate on outside herself.

  The idea that anyone could end up in jail without cause or spend the rest of their life like a caged bird was appalling. Why did no one see or do something, anything? At least on the street, whether people chose to look or not, they saw the homeless, even though they wouldn’t always admit it. They were wraiths cowering beneath the ghost of Christmas Present’s voluminous skirts. Want and Ignorance were part of life, a part of the life that made them uncomfortable.

  So much of what had happened over the past few weeks seemed like a horrible dream. All these women took what life handed them and made do. They made their own way. It might not always be legal, but they did what they had to do to live. Realizing that made Pearl feel thankful and sad in equal measure. Life was so unfair.

  “Who told you life was fair?” The words echoed like a mantra, the words her mother hit Pearl with every time she said something was unfair. “Life is not fair. The sooner you understand that, the better off you’ll be. Better find you a man to take care of you. Take the first one who asks. You won’t get another chance.” How those words burned and spurred her to get as far away from home as possible.

  Florida had been the first step. She had made the best of what she found, burying herself in work and constantly checking the bottom line. Money and success would make everything all right, except that it did not—and it had not. Living like a nun had not helped either. It had made her vulnerable to J. D.’s charming banter and the pie-in-the-sky dreams he offered.

  Expecting a quick fix or a fast trip to success was foolish. The result of that kind of thinking was evident here among these women. They had fallen prey to dream sellers and vacation condos with drugs and sex at bargain basement prices. An ounce of soul for a pound of dreams. Not much of a bargain.

  Don’t look at the frayed and tattered edges, the hucksters said. Concentrate on the bangles and shimmer of gold. Okay, so the gold is a bit tarnished. A little spit and polish, a bit of elbow grease, it will look as good as new.

  It was unconscionable.

  Giving up and giving in to that idea, she would end up like Betty, calm and passive and resigned to whatever fickle fate dished out. That was not going to happen. One way or another there was a way out, a legal way out. If she could find someone who knew when she would see a lawyer or get her day in court, she would have answers and the key to unlock the doors.

  “Why haven’t I seen a lawyer or been before the judge?” She asked the question over and over. She had fallen into a rut—getting up, eating, playing games, chores, and bed—she was becoming just like Betty. “Too busy staying alive and sane. No more.” Tomorrow she would ask one of the guards taking attendance to ask about a lawyer. Someone had to know how to go about it. It was past time to ask questions and expect answers.

  There was a way out. For now, it was sleep.

  Soothed by the faint glimmer of a light at the end of the tunnel, she fell into a deep sleep, the first restful sleep in two weeks.

  It was not much, and it was only temporary, but it was a way out - for now.

  Eighteen

  Morning roll call was not much of a shock.

  Sleep eased its leaden grip on mind, eyes and body before the lights cracked the silence and the bolts buzzed and clanged. Her stomach rumbled and a thread of fear whispered through her. Was she becoming used to the rhythm and regimentation already? No, I’m just hungry from not eating much yesterday.

  The aroma of Cream of Wheat curled along the line. Friday. There would be tuna fish sandwiches for dinner. It made sense. New Orleans was heavily Catholic once upon a time and Friday was fish day. Fish eaters. It reminded her of home and the rivalry between her high school football team and the Catholic school a few blocks away. Home—long ago and far away—was not home any more.

  Cap had told her the whole state of Louisiana still lived by the Napoleonic Code. She was not sure what that meant in terms of laws and the Constitution, but she was definitely not in Kansas.

  Napoleon and Catholics. New Orleans was like nowhere else on earth. Friendly to tourists and a good place to be homeless with plenty of casual work available in the French Quarter. Despite the city’s oddities, quirks and sensibility of—what did the locals call it?—laissez faire—it was a pleasant place, at least what she had seen of it in her scramble to survive.

  Laissez le bon temps ruler. Let the good times roll, no matter where or how or when.

  The idea of going with the flow, letting the good times roll, was seductive in a way, the very essence of living in the moment. How Buddhist. It was nowhere more apparent than in New Orleans. It had nothing to do with the tourist trade and everything to do with the feel of the city and the surrounding parishes. People worked hard and played hard and never let the work get in the way. It cut against her own Midwest grain and the down deep belief that nothing worth having was ever free. There was always a price to pay.

  She had paid a pretty price for everything earned—and lost—in the years since her divorce. In a way, she felt a kinship with many of her fellow inmates, not because of the drugs or prostitution or crime—that was not the way out she chose—but because they worked for everything in whatever way they could even though someone was always ready to take it all away. Living like that instilled a wary watchfulness. It did not pay to get too attached or get too close to anything or anyone. Let the guard down a little, let someone get close enough to touch, and grief and pain were soon followed by loss—and often the loss of everything.

  Pearl did not miss the books she had collected and carried with her in the trunk of her car nearly as much as more personal items, ties to happier memories and people. Her grandmother’s wedding doll and Great Aunt Ann’s very expensive and beautifully made costume jewelry. That is what hurt the most. They were irreplaceable, and J.D. had taken it all.

  On a whim, she had once taken the jewelry to be appraised. She knew the workmanship was unique, probably silver, but not how pure the silver was. A few of the gems were Austrian crystals and not very valuable by themselves, but the jewelry had been made during the 1920s by master craftsmen. The pieces were worth more than diamonds because of their unique designs and flawless workmanship.

  That is how she got the job with Levin and Sons. Mr. Levin appraised the jewelry and said he had not seen anything like them in more fifty years. Pearl told him about her great aunt and they discussed cut and design. She did not know much about cutting gems, but Mr. Levin said she had a good eye for design, so he hired her.

  Lost. Every bit of family history that mattered lost because she went searching for better things and believed she would fit in with the best jewelry designers in the world.

  The good times had rolled right over her and left her stranded. She had nothing to look forward to if—when (must remember to think positively)—she got out of jail, nothing. Once again, she would be homeless and living hand to mouth. The future offered nothing but time shares in firetrap hotel floors and sleeping in shifts with three other people (if they were still around) and selling plasma for food. If she were lucky, the temp agency would rehire her. She was better off in jail. Three meals a day, no responsibilities and a clean bed and room to sleep in.

  No. She knew if she gave in now, she would be trapped inside forever, institutionalized.

  The feeling of having slipped into some alternate dimension was getting stronger. Why hadn’t she been given the same clothes as the rest of the prisoners? She was there and not there, on the roll call list but set apart, and she was treated differently. Whatever happened, she would have to roll with the punches and look for
an opportunity to get word out.

  Picking up the pen, she began to write Lainie’s story until she got to the part about the trunk. I’ll ask about the trunk later. Best get what I know written while it’s still fresh.

  At lunch, when the guard handed out canteen slips, Pearl asked to speak to someone about seeing an attorney. The guard ignored her. “Please, ma’am, I’d like to see an attorney.” The glare was enough to silence her. The direct approach wasn’t working. The next step would an indirect one. Pearl filled out the form.

  After last week’s feast, there was only twelve dollars left on the account. She would have to be very careful. The money had to last three more weeks. No ice cream. Toothpaste and deodorant, check. Not much money was left and she needed underwear. A package of three cost five dollars; they were much less on the outside. She had to have them since the one pair she did have was beginning to fall apart from daily washing. They would have to do. No underwear. Maybe she would get out soon or maybe she was in denial. Either way, she had made her choice.

  Toothpaste. If I save the salt and use that to brush my teeth instead of toothpaste Eight dollars. A pound of sugar cost two-fifty. It was thirty-five cents a pound on the outside and five pounds was a dollar fifty. The prices were ridiculous. Someone was making a bundle. Looks like all the criminals aren’t locked up. A pack of twelve legal pads at the drug store cost four dollars and one single pad from the canteen cost a dollar fifty, more than half the price of sugar, but sugar was a commodity and could be traded for paper. Better to get the paper.

  The deputy called for canteen slips and she was not even close to being done. All right, one legal pad. That left six-fifty. It was not much, but it would have to do, and it was enough for a one-pound bag of sugar to trade for more paper—if she ran out. No, she’d get the paper. She added a note on the bottom, “I haven’t seen an attorney. I need to see an attorney as soon as possible.” Sending up a quick prayer, she handed over the slip and watched it disappear among the rest. A message in a bottle had been cast on the waves. It was up to the winds of fate to blow it to shore. In the meantime, there was paper and pen and more stories to write.

  “What you doing? Can’t be that much to write about.” Joy peered around the corner of the door, stole a quick look at the guard station and slipped inside.

  “You’d be surprised.” Pearl stretched and stood, joints cracking and popping as she worked out the kinks. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

  “Nobody seed me. I be fine.” Joy slipped along the wall until she stood between the bunk and the desk, crouching until only the top of her head was visible.

  Pearl gathered up the pages and tablet and put them into the drawer.

  “I thought you let people read what you been writing.”

  “I do, but it’s not finished.”

  “What about all them other papers? Can I read them?”

  “Ask whoever has them.”

  Joy crouched lower, bobbing up to look out the door and sinking back down again.

  “Was there something you wanted?”

  “Yeah. It be dinner time.”

  “And you want my sugar.”

  The girl stood up and stalked out of the cell. “No. Just making conversation. Don’t always gotta be about that. Why you got to be like that?”

  She slipped out of sight and Pearl imagined her slithering through the shadows and crawling bonelessly up the stairs. Pearl shivered, hanging back in the doorway until she was sure Joy was gone. The cell fell suddenly colder, the shadows menacing. She shook it off and headed upstairs.

  Lainie didn’t speak to her when they passed in the dinner line, pointedly looking away when Pearl caught up with her in the hallway. “Lainie, are you all right?”

  Lainie winked at her, a mischievous gleam in her eye.

  “I want to talk about the trunk.”

  “When you show me what you wrote.”

  “I said I would.”

  “Not about me. About you.”

  Before Pearl could answer, a guard stepped between them. “Move or you don’t eat.” The skinny blonde’s freckled hand rested on the ebony stick hanging from the thick belt. Pearl veered toward the quad door. When Lainie came back onto the quad, she walked out and around Maureen’s girls. The women jeered and herded Lainie farther out. When they reached the stairs, she skirted the railing and followed it to the picnic tables, glancing in Pearl’s direction. I’m not telling you about the trunk until I see what you’ve written. All right then.

  Betty wiped a mist of mayo and tuna from the tray with a corner of bread and popped it into her mouth. Joo-Eun picked up her tray and set it on top of Betty’s while Pearl pushed limp lettuce around the tray. “You goin’ eat?”

  “Pardon?”

  “That salad. you goin’ finish it?”

  “I’m done.” Pearl slid the tray across the table.

  She did not want to share her personal thoughts with Lainie, or with anyone right now. Maybe not ever. It brought up too many bad memories, memories of being punished as a teenage for thinking and feeling, for the confusion, anger and sadness in her diary and locking it away, sure no one else would see it. She had been violated. She would not be violated again. It was her choice - mostly. Lainie would likely tell her what was in the trunk even if Pearl did not share what she had written. It was a ploy. Then again, why not let Lainie read it? Maybe the other women would be more willing to share their stories. They had after all shared some of their stories already.

  There was only so much paper. There would be more on Tuesday, and she wanted to know what these women were like. What drove them? How did they end up here? Why did they choose the lives they led? They called themselves nickel, dime and quarter whores. How did it feel to be high and sell yourself to someone for so little?

  She looked through the pages and chose the first things written when she had tried to find some humor, something ridiculous to balance the fear and confusion. Lainie might not get the humor; then again she might. It would have to do.

  Bats descended en masse and tore around her stomach in frantic flight. I can do this. After all, she was not being graded. No, I’m just sharing my innermost thoughts and feelings. That never turns out well. She shrugged. You have to give to get.

  As usual, Lainie was playing cards at the picnic table across from Martha. Pearl set the pages on the table and sat down beside Martha on the corner of the bench. Lainie threw down the cards and picked up the papers. “It’s your turn. You playin’ or what?” Lainie shook her head, gathered up the pages and walked away.

  “I’ll play Lainie’s hand,” Pearl said.

  “Somebody better. No way I’m losing this hand.”

  “Game’s not over yet, Martha.” Pearl grinned.

  Concentrating on the game was difficult. Pearl wanted to run after Lainie. Martha tapped the table whenever her eyes wandered toward Lainie’s cell. Gradually she got caught up in the game, winning more than her share of hands. She had forgotten how much fun it was to play Euchre. It was single Euchre, not double Euchre, but it was fun. She missed playing cards with the guys at lunch in high school. How long ago that seemed.

  For a little while, the green windows and bars and milling inmates faded away until all that remained was the game. They joked and laughed and, for the first time since landing on the quad, she laughed out loud, holding her sides until she was doubled over and breathless . . . until Lainie came rushing back.

  “I don’t believe you wrote this.”

  “What?”

  Lainie slammed the papers down on the picnic table. “This.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Ain’t nothing wrong, but you’re funny.”

  Pearl gathered up the pages, folded them and slid them beneath her leg. “Thanks.” She turned back to the game. “Spades.”

  “Let’s go then, partner. Gotta set them.” Martha patted the table. “Come to mama.”

  “Hurry up. I want to talk to you.” Lainie perched on the very e
dge of the bench, forcing Pearl to slide over.

  “After this hand.”

  “Now.”

  “Girl, get your wide behind up and out of the way. You’re distracting me.” Martha reached over and shoved Lainie’s withered arm off the table. “You had your chance. Now go. Almost got ‘em on the run.”

  “Maybe not, Martha,” Pearl said.

  Lainie refused to budge.

  Cards slapped the table and were quickly scooped out of the way. The players were out for blood. “Hah! Game, set and match. Beat that.” Pearl trumped the last hand.

  The cards were shuffled and dealt in lightning time. “This one is for the match.” Martha shifted the cards in her hand. “Clubs.”

  The bidding sped around. Pearl looked up, a triumphant gleam in her eyes. “Diamonds. Alone.” She chose three cards and passed them across the table. Her smile widened as she arranged the cards her partner passed. “I’ll take them; you rake them.” Pearl’s partner nodded, hand out and ready to sweep the tricks as soon as they were laid.

  Halfway through the hand, the speaker crackled to life. “Lights out.”

  “Hurry up now.” Martha followed suit. The foursome rushed to finish the game. The brunette partnering Martha could not make up her mind which card to throw even though it was obvious it didn’t matter. She had no trumps and no jacks. Pearl had all trumps.

  “Lights out now.”

  Pearl laid the last four cards down. The brunette tossed her hand on top. Martha gathered the cards and they all scurried away to their cells. Pearl picked up a card from the floor. “Sorry about that, Martha. Maybe next time.”

  “Sure, boo. You had to shoot the moon. Ain’t no doubt about it. I’ll get you next time.” They walked down the stairs together. “Those papers. They about Lainie’s story, the one she told you?”

  “No, something else. It’s nothing special.”

  Hand on her lower back, Martha leaned against the door frame. “How ‘bout tomorrow? Want to be my partner? ”