Angela shifted and winced at stiffly protesting joints. Her head felt like it was too heavy for her slender neck.
“Where would you like to go?”
“Anywhere on Canal. I can find my way from there.”
The truck slowed to a stop on Canal near the French Quarter. The driver had a delivery near the docks. She needed to get to Charity Hospital. Both pairs of panties were soaked with blood and the only thing keeping her from leaking on the passenger seat were her jeans and a rolled up mass of toilet paper she had stuffed down her panties right before the truck driver picked her up. She didn’t want to lose this baby, too, even if it was Tyrone’s.
The driver apologized for not helping her down, but he couldn’t get out with all the traffic buzzing past. Angela crawled out of the cab backward, feeling for the steps and inching her way down. “Thank you.”
The driver nodded. “You’re welcome, miss.”
The overnight bag’s strap dug into the bony ridges of her shoulder beneath the heavy fur coat. It was so heavy it nearly over balanced her. She kept walking. Up at the next block, two cops leaned against their cruiser sipping coffee that steamed in the chilly air. Her stomach cramped from hunger.
She moved on leaden feet, one step at a time, feeling as though the cops were farther and farther away until suddenly they caught her as she wavered on her feet.
“Hey, now. Y’all drunk?” The tall black cop propped her against the rear of the car.
“Charity Hospital? I gotta find it.”
“Let’s see some ID.”
Angela fumbled in her pocket for her driver’s license and welfare card, fingers numb and uncooperative when she tried to wrap them around the slippery plastic. She yanked the plastic card out, turning the silk lining inside out. Everything spilled onto the sidewalk.
She was grabbed from behind, wrenching her shoulder. She cried out and tried to get away. “No you don’t,” he said, pinning her wrist behind her back. “Please,” she begged. He slammed her face first onto the trunk of the cruiser.
“Please. Charity Hos…”
The trunk rushed up at her. He yanked her head sideways and slammed her down, holding her in place while he put on the handcuffs. White spots danced with black spots, swirling and twirling, getting bigger and bigger until they swallowed her whole.
Thirty-Three
Rumors on the outside seldom turned out to be true, although a germ of truth might lie at the center. It was like playing telephone, beginning with a simple message. What comes out the other end was almost always completely garbled. Inside was different, at least when it came to rumors; they turned out to be true.
The story that filtered down to the quad was Angela had been arrested for a concealed weapon—a steak knife. She had asked for the officers’ help and they cuffed her and took her to Central. A little slip of a girl like Angela was a danger to the big bad New Orleans policemen.
When she passed out in a pool of her own blood down at Central, they finally took her to Charity. At the hospital, they had chained her hand and foot to the bed. It was cheaper than keeping an officer on duty outside her room when she tried to run.
Dehydrated and delirious from blood loss, barely able to walk the way her feet were chewed up, she was no flight risk.
The rumors were true. The workings of the police mind were more difficult to understand.
“They kept me chained to the bed for four days.”
“Is the baby all right?”
“Naw, she’s fine.” Angela patted her flat stomach. “She’s a strong little thing.”
“And they booked you for carrying a concealed weapon?”
“Steak knife in my pocket.” Angela patted her thigh as if she still carried the knife. “I shore meant to use it if someone tried to hurt me.”
“But you wouldn’t have used it on the police.”
“Naw, but they got their rules. I was just too out of it. Took out my ID and the knife fell out. Bad luck.”
“More like bad cops.” Pearl had a feeling the child Angela carried had inherited her tenacity. “That’s some story.”
Angela nodded and lay down. The burden of telling the story had left her weak. She began snoring shortly after. “They should’ve kept you in the hospital longer,” Pearl whispered.
She began writing. Lainie called her from the hallway. “Psst. Hey! Dinner. You coming?”
“Yeah, sure.” She put the sheets in the desk drawer and tried to rouse Angela. She groaned and turned over, pulling the covers over her head.
“Come on,” Lainie urged. “She’ll probably sleep the rest of the weekend.”
“Probably,” Pearl said.
Lainie, Betty and Pearl played dominoes while they ate. Dinner was the usual lettuce salad and cold bologna sandwiches, tasteless and greasy.
About halfway through the first game, Angela came upstairs, got her tray and sat down at the end of the table. She devoured everything on the tray and then looked for more, but Lainie had already bussed the trays. Wetting her fingers, Angela picked up a little fallen sugar on the table, got up and went back downstairs. Through the bars, Pearl watched as she dropped onto the pallet like a wet sack of sand, burrowed into the tumbled covers and went back to sleep. She was still asleep when the lights went out and the bolts slammed home.
The night passed into day. Day followed night with little change in the usual order of things. Angela slept most of the time, getting up only to eat or use the toilet, while Pearl used the last of the paper to write another article. When the paper was gone and the envelopes addressed, she handed them over to Sarah. In the meantime, she played cards and dominoes with Betty and waited for Tuesday when there would be paper and pen.
Sarah handed several envelopes to the deputy on duty Monday morning. As she walked back to the tables, she tapped Pearl on the shoulder and motioned for her to follow. Pearl finished playing the hand, waiting until Betty nodded it was all right to go.
“Lainie. Come take boo’s place. Her mind jes’ ain’ on the game,” Betty said as Lainie came around the corner.
Pearl stifled a chuckle. It was as if they were spies.
Sarah sat at the end of the first table. She read silently, head bowed, back erect, hands cupped beneath the well worn paperback. The card players shifted over, leaving an opening for Pearl. She sat down and pretended to watch the game.
Aloof from the rest, Sarah exuded an air of patience and calm as though nothing touched her. She was so matter of fact about what happened to her. Nothing on the quad seemed to affect her. Pearl suspected Sarah never would fit in and somehow that seemed right and proper.
There was something odd that Pearl couldn’t quite put her finger on. Sarah’s hair was very short, a close-cropped cap of tightly wound curls. There was no attention to hairstyle or individuality. That set Sarah apart. She was unique.
Without looking up, Sarah said, “I took a look at what you wrote.” Her lips barely moved. “I sent the last three out this morning, but I’m afraid you’ll be on your own after tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“I am being released.”
“When did you find out?”
“Guard told me this morning when I handed her the mail. The paperwork is in.”
“So you don’t have to go to court?”
Sarah shook her head, turned the page and looked directly into Pearl’s eyes. “No.” She tilted her head. “Once I’m out, I want you to keep sending the stories.”
“I don’t have any envelopes. I didn’t buy any.”
Sarah reached down and handed over a few stamped envelopes. “This should do you for a while.” They were already addressed. “A gift.”
“Thank you.” Pearl studied the envelopes, biting her lower lip. There was so much she wanted to ask Sarah, so much she wanted to know, but did not feel it was right to intrude. She needed to be less shy. Tomorrow, Sarah would be gone. The knowledge weighed heavily and Pearl felt sad, as though she was losing something important. Their eye
s locked; Sarah smiled.
Her smile was gentle and forgiving, and open. Pearl felt the blush begin low down and flare upward like a brush fire. Her cheeks felt hot and she touched the back of one icy hand to the flames. She looked down at the envelopes again, wanting to look anywhere but into Sarah’s eyes. They were as green as a forest pool dappled with sunshine. “I appreciate what you’ve done,” Pearl managed at last, still not able to look up and unsure why she felt so strange.
“You helped me as much as I helped you.”
The silence lengthened and Pearl looked up from beneath lowered lashes. Sarah sat impassive, waiting and silent.
Pearl felt the shock of Sarah’s warmth against her hands. Instinct took over and she snatched her hands away. Sarah caught Pearl’s hands and held them until Pearl looked up and met her gaze. Wonder followed a spreading warmth that tingled and filled Pearl’s aching heart with . . . something . . . with hope. She didn’t know when it happened, just that some time during the past five weeks she had lost hope without realizing it was gone. She had been so busy writing, capturing and saving stories, that she hadn’t noticed that everything outside the writing was empty of meaning, of life, of friendship.
As much as she respected Betty and had come to like several others, Pearl didn’t feel a true spark of friendship. The other women were too different, came from places and experiences she didn’t understand except superficially. There, with Sarah holding her hands, she felt a kinship. They shared something more than circumstance. They shared similar—she had no other word for it—souls. It was not love or sexual attraction but acknowledgement of something intangible, something that made them soul mates.
In that moment, the tightness in Pearl’s chest, the feeling she had ignored until she was used to bearing it, eased and they like old friends. They talked of their children. They laughed, their heads close together, touching each other: fingers on a forearm or a fleeting brush of hand to hand.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, Pearl wondered how she had managed without the casual touch of friend to friend. There was comfort and familiarity in touching and being touched, and she felt her heart open wider. She breathed deeper. All the pressure was gone.
“When did you decide to cut off all your hair?”
“It’s just dead tissue.” She patted her hair. “It gets so nasty. No matter how much you wash it, it’s still dirty. Traps all kinds of smells and filth, so I shaved it off.”
“I’m not sure I could cut my hair that short.” Pearl fingered the back of her neck. “I got a Sassoon when I was twelve. Let Debbie Nelson talk me into it. The lady at the beauty shop cut my hair so short they had to shave my neck. I couldn’t wait for it to grow out.”
“You’d look good with short hair.”
“Probably look like a plucked chicken.” They both laughed and neither of them noticed Joy and Letty peering down through the bars on the second tier.
The evil twins sat knee to knee, legs crossed, heads close together, eyes glued to the scene below them. Joy still burned at the way the women had closed ranks against her. She was determined that they would pay, that Pearl would pay.
“Look at them gettin’ all cozy,” Letty said.
“Don’t matter. Won’t be cozy for long. That one be out ‘fore long and the other one ain’t gonna know what hit her.”
“You gonna git her tomorrow.”
Joy glared at Letty. “Keep yore voice down, you stupid bitch. Just keep yore eyes open and yore mouth shut and do what I tell you.” Joy stood up. When Letty got up to follow, Joy glared at her until Letty sat down, head bowed. She waited until Joy was downstairs and out the quad door before she got up. It didn’t pay to push Joy too far or get too close. Bitch turn on me just as quick.
Letty ate alone in the far corner of the quad, as far from Joy as she could get. She knew Joy would calm down eventually and she didn’t want to miss out on the fun. Chuckling to herself, she finished eating, imagining sinking her teeth into Pearl’s soft white flesh with every bite. Bet she taste good, too.
Thirty-Four
The bolts had slammed home seconds before when someone starting banging on the door and yelling. “Guards! Guards! I left something up on the table. Guards! Guards!”
Pearl tip-toed to the window and peered out through the bars. Martha was banging on the cell door and yelling.
“Guards! I need my stuff.”
The night shift supervisor’s voice crackled over the intercom. “If you don’t want to spend the night in solitary, you best shut up and get to sleep.”
“I need my stuff.”
The light in the vestibule between the quad and hallway, snapped on. One of the guards came through the door, her hand on the mace holstered at her belt. She was short and round, a little barrel with legs. Long, slick Jheri curls swung around her face as she waddled across the floor. Even in the low light, Pearl could see a shimmer of lilac eye shadow coating her eyelids.
“You best keep quiet,” she said. The guard glanced down at Betty’s table and then walked toward the picnic tables. Pearl looked up through the railings. A sheaf of yellow pages lay at the end of the table on the bench where Martha had been sitting.
The guard picked them up. “This what you yelling about?”
“Yes, ma’am. Please give them here.”
Pearl held her breath. Those were her pages. She said a quick prayer.
The guard walked to the head of the steps and looked down at Martha squeezing her thick arm through the narrow bars. She stepped down onto the next step and stopped, glancing through the pages, turned and went back upstairs.
“Guard! Guard!” Martha yelled after her. “Those are mine.”
The guard went through the quad door. The light snapped off as the door banged shut with a hollow metal thud.
Moments later, in the green glow of the console, the night shift supervisor stood up and took the yellow pages from the guard, looked them over and walked out the door.
The quad was silent. No snores. No coughing. No sneezing. No muttered dreams. No furtive scrambling in the dark. It felt as if everyone was awake and held their breath. The guards had Pearl’s stories.
They knew.
Angela snored. Pearl counted the seconds between each snore like counting the time between lighting and the crash of thunder to know how close a storm was. There were a dozen seconds between each congested snore. Time clotted, sluggish and forgetful as it crawled through the darkness. Nowhere else did Pearl hear the usual nighttime sounds. She was not awake alone. Time and the anxious expectation of the guard’s return weighed unequally on them all, most praying for reprieve and the rest avid and greedy in anticipating the end when one name was called—Pearl’s name.
Every day, the audience sat on the sidelines ready to cheer each new sacrifice, the outside world contained and bottled in miniature.
There was one person Pearl was certain lay in dreamless sleep—Betty, who had seen it all come and go while she played cards and dominoes. At least she would sleep, and even in sleep knew what was happening.
Most of the women believed Betty to be as powerful as a voodoo priestess working black magic on a moonless night. She might walk among mortals, but she was not mortal to them. Betty was something more, something different.
For all her power on the quad, Betty held no power over the guards. They respected her and gave her a wide berth, but she was another number, another criminal to be fed and housed and controlled—as much as the guards controlled anything.
At that moment, Pearl wished that Betty could sway the guards. She knew she was done for. If the powers that be had deliberately lost her records, by finding and reading those pages, they would find her. Pearl could feel the spotlight searching for her just when she wanted to be invisible.
No one on the quad would give her up. They were too afraid of what Betty might do, and she hoped they had come to like her. No, they would wait and watch and not get in the way if Pearl was found out. There were still Letty and Joy
. There was enough bad blood between them, either one would be glad to see her go down.
Pearl searched her memory. Did she write her name down? Was there anything that could point to her? Yes, I claimed them the first day. Just my luck.
She pulled out the desk drawer and felt inside. The pages were still taped to the underside of the desk. Okay, if the ones I wrote my name on are here, then which ones do the guards have? The ones about the deputies and living conditions. The satire. My name’s not on those.
It was not Martha’s fault. It was a mistake, one that might cost Pearl dearly if she was found out, but it was not a malicious mistake. The papers could have stayed on the table all night and the guards would probably not have noticed them. It didn’t matter now. There was no way of knowing what they would have done; it was a moot point. Martha had panicked and reacted out of fear.
Martha was a pro. She knew the way things worked inside. She would not have sold out Pearl. There was no reason to give her up.
The guards might have been aware something was going on, that something had changed, that the women had changed, but no way to know what—or who—was responsible—at least in part.
Betty had warned her to keep her back against the wall, to protect herself from the guards.
She wished for a clock to know how much time before dawn and roll call. If Pearl got through roll call without being called out, she was safe.
Anyone could have written those pages. They all got the same pens and the same yellow legal pads. They could read and write—as far as she knew. It was doubtful the guards would question every one of them.
Being called Foti’s flunkies wouldn’t go down very well nor would Pearl’s pointed descriptions of life on the quad. Foti’s flunkies might not get sarcasm or find it humorous; people seldom did when they were the butt of the joke. She imagined a few guards might take exception to being singled out; caricatures often had that effect on the humorless.
The queen bee of the guards would be out for blood when she saw her amours and assignations exposed. It wasn’t exactly a secret, but there were some things it was not safe to mention. A lieutenant who dispensed favors and privileges in exchange for intimacies and snitching was one of those unsafe things.
Among Women Page 26
