Malice (12 page)

Their belongings were placed in plastic bags with their names, anything forbidden had to be sent back at their own expense, or disposed of on the spot, like Grace's jeans, but she was pleased that she was allowed to keep her sweater. They were issued uniforms then, a set of rough sheets, many of which had blood and urine stains on them, and given a slip of paper with their B numbers and their cells, and then they were led away for a brief orientation as to the rules, and they were told that they would each be given job assignments the following morning. Depending on their jobs, they would be paid between two and four dollars a month for working, failure to show up for work would result in an immediate trip to the hole for a week. Failure to appear a second time would result in a month in the hole. Failure to cooperate generally would wind them up
in
solitary for six months with nothing to do and no one to talk to.

“Make it easy on yourselves, girls,” the guard in charge of orienting them said in no uncertain terms, “play it our way. It's the only way to go at Dwight.”

“Yeah, bullshit,” a voice whispered to Grace's right, but it was impossible to tell who it was. It had been a disembodied whisper.

In a way, they made it sound easy. All you had to do was play their game, go to work, go to chow, stay out of trouble, go back to your cell on time, and you'd do easy time and get out right on schedule. Fight with anyone, join a gang, threaten a guard, break the rules, and you'd be there forever. Try to escape and you were “dead meat hanging on the fence,” or so they said. They certainly made themselves clear, but there was more to it than just pleasing them, you had to live with the other inmates too, and they looked as tough as the guards, or worse, and they had a whole other agenda.

“What about school?” a girl in the back asked, and everyone jeered.

“How old are you?” the inmate standing next to her asked derisively.

“Fifteen.” She was another minor, like Grace, who had been tried as an adult, but they were rare here. Dwight was almost entirely for grown-ups. And surely for grown-up crimes. Like Grace, the other girl had been accused of murder, she had plea-bargained it down to manslaughter and saved herself from the death penalty. She had killed her brother, after he'd raped her. But now she wanted to go to school and get out of the ghetto.

“You've had enough school,” the woman standing next to her said. “What do you need school for?”

“You can apply after you've been here ninety days,” the guard said, and then moved on to explain what would happen to them if they ever had the bad judgment to participate in a riot. Just the thought of it made Grace's blood run cold, as the guard explained that in the last riot, they had killed forty-two inmates. But what if she got caught in the middle? What if she was taken hostage? What if she was killed by an inmate or a guard while she was just minding her own business? How was she ever going to survive this?

Her head was reeling as they finally walked her to her cell. They went in a single line, watched by half a dozen guards and hooted and jeered at by most of the inmates, standing on the tiers, looking down at them and squealing and laughing. “Hey, look at the little fishies … yum yum!” They blew kisses, they shrieked, the girl in front of Grace in the line was even hit with a flying Tampax, and Grace almost retched when she saw it. It was a place like nothing Grace had ever dreamed. It was your worst nightmare come to life. A trip to hell from which Grace could no longer imagine returning. She could still smell the insecticide on her face and hair, and as they stopped at the cell she'd been assigned to, she could feel her asthma starting to choke her.

“Adams, Grace. B-214.” The guard unlocked the door, signaled for her to step in, and the moment Grace had, she heard the door clang shut, and the key turn. She was standing in a space roughly eight feet square, there was a double bunk, and the walls were covered with pictures of naked women. There were cutouts from
Playboy
and
Hustler
and magazines Grace couldn't imagine that women would read, but they did here. Or at least, her roommate did. The lower bunk was neatly made, and with shaking hands, she set about making the top bunk, and put her toothbrush on a little ledge with a paper cup they'd given her. She'd been told that she had to buy her own cigarettes and toothpaste. But she didn't smoke anyway, she couldn't with her asthma.

When the bed was made, she climbed up and sat on it, and she just sat there, staring at the door, wondering what would happen next, or how bad it would be when she met her roommate. It was obvious what her preferences were from the photographs on the walls, and Grace was braced for the worst, but she was surprised when a sour-looking woman in her late forties was let into the cell two hours later. She glanced up at Grace, and said not a word. She paused for one long instant, looking at her, and there was no denying that Grace was beautiful, but her cellmate didn't look impressed, and it was fully half an hour later before she said hello and that her name was Sally.

“I don't want no shit in here,” she said tersely to Grace, “no funny stuff, no visitors from the gangs, no porno, no drugs. I been here seven years. I got my friends and I keep my nose clean. You do the same and we'll be fine, you give me a pain and I'll kick your ass from here to D Block. Got that nice and clear?”

“Yes,” Grace nodded breathlessly. Her chest had been getting tighter and tighter since that morning, and by dinnertime, she could hardly breathe. She was wheezing badly and they had taken her inhaler away from her when she arrived.

“You need help, you call a guard,” she'd been told, but she didn't want to do that unless she really had to. She would die first before calling attention to herself, but as they blew the whistle for chow, and she got off her bunk, Sally saw that Grace was in trouble.

“Oh Christ … looks like I got me a baby. Look, I hate kids. I never had any. I never wanted any. And I don't now. You gotta take care of yourself here.” Grace noticed as she looked down at her as Sally put on a clean shirt that her back, chest, and arms were covered with tattoos, but in some ways she was a relief to Grace. She was fully prepared to mind her own business.

“I'm fine … really …” she wheezed, but she could barely breathe by then, and Sally watched her as she fought for air. She needed her inhaler desperately, and she didn't have it.

“Sure you are. Just sit down. I'll take care of it … this time …” She looked vastly annoyed as she buttoned her shirt and kept her eye on Grace, who was deathly pale as the guard unlocked the door for dinner. Sally signaled to him before he could move on, and waved vaguely at Grace, standing in the corner. “My fish is having a little problem,” she said quietly, “looks like asthma or something, can I run her to sick bay?”

“Sure, if you want, Sally. You think she's fakin’ it?” But when they looked at her again, Grace looked more gray than pale by then, and it was obvious that her distress was real. Even her lips were faintly blue. “Nice of you to play nursemaid, Sal,” the guard teased. Sally was known to be one of the hardest women in the prison. She didn't take shit from anyone, and she was in for two counts of murder. She had murdered her girlfriend on the outside, and the woman she'd been cheating with. “It lets people know how I think,” she always explained to the women she was involved with. But she had had the same lover in C Block for the past three years. Everyone in the place knew they were as good as married, and no one ever crossed Sally.

“Come on,” she said to Grace over her shoulder, and then shoved her out of the cell with a look of annoyance. “I'll take you to the nurse, but don't pull this shit on me again. You got a problem, you handle it. I ain't gonna wipe your ass for you, kid, just because you're my cellmate.”

“I'm sorry,” Grace said, her eyes brimming with tears. It was not a great beginning, and the woman was clearly pissed at her. At least that was what Grace thought. She didn't know that the older woman felt sorry for her. It was obvious even to her that Grace didn't belong there.

Five minutes later, she left Grace with the nurse, as she continued to gasp for air. The nurse gave her oxygen, and finally relented and decided to let her have, and keep, her inhaler. She wasn't going to be worth the trouble she caused if they didn't. But this time, they had to give her some other medication as well, because the attack had gotten too far out of hand in the past half hour. Grace knew only too well that without her medicine, she could die from suffocation. But at this point, she wasn't totally convinced that that wouldn't be a blessing.

She arrived at dinner half an hour later, shaken and pale, and most of the edible food was gone, the rest was all grit and grease and bone, and the stuff no one had wanted. She wasn't hungry anyway, the asthma attack had made her feel sick, and the medicine always made her feel shaky. She was too upset to eat anyway. She wanted to thank Sally for taking her to the nurse, but she didn't dare speak to her when she saw her with a group of tough older women, covered with tattoos, and Sally gave no sign of recognition.

“What'll it be? Filet mignon, or roast duck?” a pretty black girl asked from behind the counter, and then she smiled at Grace. “Actually, I've got a couple of slices of pizza left in the back. Any interest?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Grace smiled, looking exhausted. “Thanks a lot.” The young black girl produced them for her, and watched as Grace made her way to a table.

She sat down at an empty place at a table with three other girls, no one said hello or seemed to notice her. And across the room, she could see Angela, from the bus, with a group of women, engaged in lively conversation. But this group seemed to want nothing to do with her, and she was grateful to keep to herself, and eat her slice of pizza. She was still having trouble breathing.

“My, my, what a pretty little fish you have at your table today, girls,” a voice said from behind her as she sipped her coffee. Grace didn't move when she heard the words, but she felt herself jostled by someone standing directly behind her. She tried to pretend she didn't know what was happening, and she stared straight ahead, but she could see that the other young women at her table were looking nervous. “Doesn't anyone talk around here? Christ, what a bunch of rude bitches.”

“Sorry,” one of them muttered, and then hurried away, and Grace suddenly felt a warm body pressed against the back of her head. There was no avoiding it now, she leaned forward and then turned around, and found herself looking up at an enormously tall blonde with a spectacular figure. She looked like a Hollywood version of a bad girl. She was wearing plenty of makeup, and a tight men's T-shirt that you could see through. She looked like one of Sally's pinups. She was almost a caricature of a sexy inmate.

“What a pretty girl,” the tall blonde said, looking down at her. “You lonely, baby?” her voice was a sensual purr, as she seemed to press her pelvis toward Grace as she stood there, and Grace could see now that her T-shirt was damp, which allowed everyone a clear view of her breasts and nipples. It was as though she were wearing nothing. “Why don't you come and see me sometime? My name's Brenda. Everyone knows where I live,” she said, grinning.

“Thanks.” Grace still sounded breathy from her asthma attack, and the big blonde smiled at her.

“What's your name? Marilyn Monroe?” She made fun of the way Grace had sounded.

“Sorry … asthma …”

“Oh poor baby … you take anything for it?” She sounded concerned and Grace didn't want to be rude and get her angry. The big blonde was tough and sure of herself, and she looked to be about thirty.

“Yeah … I've got an inhaler.” She pulled it out of her pocket and showed her.

“Take good care of it.” She laughed then, and tweaked the tip of Grace's breast before sauntering off to her buddies.

Grace was shaking as the other girl walked away, and she stared down into her coffee, thinking about all of them. It was truly a jungle.

“Watch out for her,” one of the girls at her table whispered, and then walked away. Brenda was a tough one.

Grace went straight back to her cell after that. They were showing a movie that night, but she had no interest in going. She just wanted to go back to her cell, and stay there until morning. She lay on her bunk, and heaved a sigh of relief. She had to use her inhaler two more times that night before she relaxed and felt like she could breathe again. And she was still awake at ten o'clock when Sally got back from the movies.

Sally didn't say a word to her, but Grace turned on her bunk and thanked her for taking her to the nurse for her asthma.

“She gave me my inhaler back.”

“Don't show it to anyone,” Sally said wisely. “They play with people here for things like that. Just keep it to yourself, and use it in private.” That wasn't always possible, but Grace sensed that it was good advice, and nodded. And then, as they turned off the lights, and Sally got into her lower bunk, she spoke to Grace again in the darkness. “I saw Brenda Evans talking to you at chow. Watch out for her. She's dangerous. You're going to have to learn to swim here real quick, little fish. And watch your back till you do. This place ain't no playground.”

“Thank you,” Grace whispered in the dark, and she lay there for a long time, as silent tears slid down her cheeks onto the mattress. She lay there for what seemed like hours, listening to the clattering and banging outside, the shouts, and occasional screams, and through it all she listened to the comfortable purr of Sally's snoring.

Chapter 5

A
fter two weeks, Grace knew her way around Dwight, and she had a job in the supply room, handing out towels and combs, and counting out toothbrushes for the new arrivals. Sally got her the job, although she pretended not to have any interest in helping Grace. But she seemed to keep an eye on her from a distance.

Molly had been to see her once by then, and she was devastated by what she heard and saw there. But Grace insisted that she was all right. And much to her own surprise, no one had really bothered her. They called her a fish whenever they got the chance, and Brenda had stopped to talk to her again once or twice at chow, but it never went beyond that. She hadn't even tweaked Grace's breast again. So far, she felt pretty lucky. She was safe, she had a decent job. Her roommate was taciturn, but basically kind. No one had threatened her, or invited her to join a gang. It looked like what they called “easy time.” At this rate, she would survive the two years. And she was in pretty good spirits when David saw her, which reassured him. He hated her being there, and he felt more than ever that she didn't belong there, but at least nothing untoward had happened to her, and she insisted that she wasn't in any danger. It was something to be cheered about at least. And they spent their time together talking about her future.