Inevitable Sentences (6 page)

“H
EY, DAYDREAMER.
” Lizzie’s voice cut into Chad’s thoughts. “Get a move on.”

Chad glared at her and she tossed her head. He had little choice. He did as she ordered.

Once all the ingredients were mixed, including the cooked macaroni, Lizzie ordered the prisoners to fill several large lasagna pans and top them with cheese. The pans were put into the ovens for their final cooking. Another group of prisoners would serve the concoction and do the dishes. Trays of food would be prepared for officers to deliver to the segregation unit where the problem inmates ate in their cells.

Chad remembered when he had spent twenty-three hours a day in that cubbyhole after his escape attempt. An officer slid each meal through a door slot. Chad shivered at the thought. The slot opened with a scraping sound that could wake the dead two counties over. Chad never wanted to go back to the hole.

W
HEN THE LAST PAN
was set in place, Warden Stump came in as quietly as a ghost. The prisoners actually called him the Ghost, not only because he made hardly a sound when he walked and seemed to appear from out of nowhere, but also because of his total persona. His emaciated body came together in a network of loose bones like a skeleton. His pasty skin pulled tightly across his face and hands, blue veins meandering like small rivulets crisscrossing a desert. In fact he looked as though he might have emerged from a coffin without ever stepping outside in daylight for the entire forty-five years of his life. Even his barely blue eyes were sunken into deep gray circles. Yet his coal black hair and the bushy brows that nearly touched in a straight line were an almost hilarious contrast to his nearly transparent skin. The inmates had placed bets on whether Stump ever slept or ate at all.

Chad tried to signal Lizzie not to appear too nervous around Stump. She’d told Chad she believed the warden had suspicions about the two of them, although Chad figured the warden was probably horny and had a thing for Lizzie. After all, hadn’t Stump made a pass at her on more than one occasion? Like the time she was alone in the kitchen doing the inventory one Saturday and Stump showed up. He wasn’t even supposed to be working that day. He hung around for almost an hour asking Lizzie all kinds of personal questions: “Are you married? Do you have a boyfriend? What do you like to do in your free time?” A couple of times, he slid by her so closely his body brushed against hers.

“It gave me the creeps. Ya know what I mean?” she said to Chad later. Lizzie shivered at her own comment. After that Chad and she both tried to keep an eye out for the warden. The Ghost could still sneak up without anybody knowing.

S
TUMP QUICKLY NODDED TO
the prisoners and turned his full attention to Lizzie. His face clearly took on a glow as he eyed her. “How is everything today, Ms. Chatfield?”

“Fine, sir.” Lizzie’s voice quavered. She walked to the oven to check the Chili Mac, even though it couldn’t possibly be ready yet.

Chad hovered close by to eavesdrop. He even casually shifted near them each time they moved.

Stump followed closely behind Lizzie, his steps nearly overtaking hers.

She bent to check the food. When she straightened, their bodies touched. She stepped to one side and walked around the warden to check the steam table. He followed her like a puppy. “You’re not working this evening, are you, Ms. Chatfield?” His words slurred slightly.

“No,” Lizzie answered but gave him no further information. How could Stump be this obvious about his intentions? Careless of him.

“Have plans, do you?” Stump teetered and he rested a hand on the sink.

“Yes.” Lizzie turned from checking the temperature gauge to face him. “Is there something I can do for you here?” She swept her hand around to indicate the entire area. “If not, I got a lot of work to do to get the meal out on time.” Where did she finally gather the courage to confront him? “You don’t want a riot because the food’s not served when it’s scheduled.”

“No, we wouldn’t, would we?”

Chad had had his fill of Stump. He sauntered up to them. “Ms. Chatfield, we need your help with the salad.” Although he’d like to slug the warden, he was careful not to even look at him. No need to give away his concern about Stump’s sudden appearance in the kitchen, or his irritation about the warden’s unguarded attention to Lizzie. Did Stump think he’d catch Lizzie alone again, taking inventory like before? Chad crinkled his nose. He smelled alcohol. Stump probably didn’t even know what day it was.

“Okay, I’ll be right over,” Lizzie said with too much enthusiasm. She shrugged at the warden. “I hope you don’t mind, but I gotta go help the guys.” She slipped away to the prep table.

“No. Go right ahead.” Stump ogled her, wiped drool from his mouth, and shifted from foot to foot. He left the area without another word.

Mackey had been hanging back. Now he walked up to Lizzie and said, “That guy is such a drunk. He doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing.”

Lizzie stared at the officer. She grabbed his arm and pulled him off to the side. “You shouldn’t be giving away trade secrets in front of the prisoners.”

“Ya think they don’t know?” Mackey snickered. “They’ve given him a new tag—the soaked spirit.” Mackey nudged Lizzie. “Spirit, get it?”

“Right,” she said. “Still, keep control of that mouth of yours, okay?”

“Sure thing, Ms. Uppity Chatfield.” Mackey started to walk away and abruptly stopped. “Don’t forget that I’m the officer here and you’re a civilian employee.”

Lizzie offered him a crooked smile. “And don’t you forget that the warden likes me better than you and that tips the scale in my direction.”

Mackey pointed at her. “Does the good warden know about your past?”

“He hired me, didn’t he?”

Mackey winked and headed back to his desk.

Chad had come as close as he could to hear their conversation. When Mackey left the area, he asked Lizzie, “What does he mean about your past?” This was no time to find out that Lizzie might be unpredictable or, worse yet, was hiding something he’d rather not have to deal with. Perhaps her past, whatever it was, would catch up with them when he broke out of prison.

“Chad, darlin', you know everything you need to know about me,” Lizzie said demurely and batted her eyes. She leaned against the prep table and licked her lips seductively. “Besides, I don’t question your past.”

The oven timer went off and Lizzie straightened. “We got fifteen minutes to get ready before the chow hall fills. Let’s move it,” Lizzie ordered. “You, too, Chad.”

Chad’s face reddened and his mouth formed a thin line. He counted to ten to calm down. He couldn’t afford to get upset at her. He relented and did as she ordered. He surely didn’t want to stir up any suspicion about the two of them. She’d get what she deserved once he got out of this place.

Chad set the large stainless steel serving containers onto the heated table in the mess hall. Charlie made sure the milk machine was full and running, while Lou checked the coffee and water.

“Chad,” Lizzie yelled. “Grab that cake and cut it into serving squares. When ya got that done, put it at the end of the line.”

His shoulders tensed. How much more could he take? Again, he did as she commanded. Once the cake was carved, he slammed the pans on the serving table.

Lizzie paid him no mind and checked the area, which resembled any cafeteria. “Okay, boys,” she said. “Get yourselves a tray and eat.”

As the three prisoners ate, the inmates who would serve the food and do the cleanup walked into the kitchen in their clean whites. “Looks like you’re wearing your dinner, Charlie,” one teased as he pointed at the brown and red spatters across Charlie’s shirt.

“The way these guys cook, that may be the only way to deal with the meals,” a second inmate added.

Everyone laughed but Chad. He didn’t like to be made fun of, and he sure didn’t like to be lumped in with the other inmates. He was better than that. He’d stay cool, though. He had to. He’d only have to take the bullshit a few more days. They wouldn’t be making fun of him then.

The newly arrived crew wolfed down their dinners. As soon as they finished, prisoner voices filled the chow hall. As the hungry masses approached the food line, the room vibrated with their energy. The servers sprang into action. This was one ravenous crowd no one should keep waiting.

F
ROM THE KITCHEN
C
HAD
walked reluctantly into his cell block. Although glad to be away from Lizzie’s imposing blather, he hated facing his bleak life on the block. At least at this time of day most of the prisoners were either at work or in the chow hall. The unit briefly hosted an uncommon peace, unlike at night, when the block filled with babbling, often screaming inmates. Their voices seemed to merge into an almost tangible body, a physical heaviness that snaked up and down the gallery unrestrained and without consideration.

Chad entered the block with hardly a sound until the door sucked closed. An officer stood at a raised counter behind the circular station in the center of the unit. He never lifted his eyes at the sound of Chad’s approaching footsteps.

Chad flipped his work pass at the officer, who gave it no response. He didn’t even raise his head from the sheet of paper on which he was making notes. Instead he let the pass float to the countertop. It landed in the middle of the page the officer had been writing on.

After several seconds the officer calmly picked up the pass, signed it, and placed it into a file. Finally, he lifted his eyes up to Chad and handed him a clipboard with a form attached. Chad snatched it, scribbled next to his name, and wrote the time he came in. The officer glared at him with such hate in his eyes that a person with less self-assurance would have felt threatened. Chad glared back with equal loathing. He couldn’t be easily intimidated. He had never been afraid of any guard. The officer should know that.

Chad dropped the board onto the counter. Its clatter echoed down the long, silent hallways that extended at right angles from the station. Chad twisted his face into one final disapproving, fierce scowl before he turned and walked to his cell. The whole routine was completed as it was every day without one word being uttered between the prisoner and guard.

Still in his soiled kitchen whites, Chad flopped onto his bunk. He placed both hands behind his head and surveyed his surroundings. Only a calendar adorned the walls. He smiled. Soon he wouldn’t have to look at the beige cinder blocks. Soon he wouldn’t lie upon the thin, musty-smelling mattress that made scraping sounds each time he moved. Soon, his own clothes—none would ever be navy blue—would be hanging in a proper closet and not stuffed into a footlocker like the one stowed at the end of his bunk. Clothes? He snickered. He owned no personal clothing. No inmate did at this security level. Although he had collected enough money from his many female admirers to buy whatever he wanted, everything he possessed was state-issued. That was prison policy.

Chad had never hung up the so-called mirror, which was a square made of reflective plastic issued by the prison. Instead, it sat on top of the stainless steel sink with the “glass” facing the wall. It was hard enough to brave his reflection when he shaved. He didn’t like to be reminded how much he had aged since being incarcerated nearly a decade ago. The time had passed at a painfully slow pace and stolen his youth. He didn’t want to see his face absent the tan, his signature that gave the impression of days spent on the beach, or sailing, or playing tennis. No matter. He would soon recapture the image he preferred—that of a man of leisure. Never again the aging inmate in prison blues. Chad admitted fear of only one thing—the loss of his youthful image. Inmates and arrogant guards who treated him as though he were invisible? None held any terror for him.

Chad sat up and swung his legs over the side of the narrow bed, bolted in place and more the size of a cot than a real bed. The fire-retardant stuffing crinkled when his weight shifted. He planted both feet squarely on the cement floor and stared at the bars covering the tiny, grit-covered window that faced the forest beyond. Winter’s darkness crept into his chamber like a sleek panther and wrapped around him, filling every fold of his body. The darkness blanked out his vision. It was harder for him to remember things when he couldn’t see.

He jumped from his bunk, rubbed his eyes, and stood straight. He breathed deeply a few times. He turned and brushed the wrinkles from the threadbare gray blanket that covered his bed and that had been purposefully tucked military-style when he arose that morning. Satisfied with the tautness of the spread, he went to the stainless steel desk bolted to the wall like everything else in his cell. He turned on the desk light and stared at the calendar taped above the desk. Each month displayed a location in the Upper Peninsula. November flaunted a picture of the Big Bay Point Lighthouse basking in autumn sunlight. He picked up a pencil and crossed off Thursday. He laid the pencil down next to a yellow legal-sized pad, sitting square with the desk’s edge. He raised his hand and with one finger circled Sunday. His finger crossed over to the lighthouse. He flattened his hand against the picture and held it there, lost in the visions of his future.

Time for his daily correspondence. Chad checked the dim light shining from the ceiling fixture. Barely enough. He kicked the stainless steel stool that was secured to the floor in front of the desk. “I want flexible furniture that I can move whenever I want. And a decent light.” The words were forced through clenched teeth held so tightly together his entire head trembled. Sitting down on the stool he detested, the coolness held by the steel seeped through his pants to his legs. He placed the yellow legal pad in front of him, and began writing in pencil, the only instrument allowed.