Toni Morrison - Paradise

"Can't you get anything right? Just a small Bible! Not a goddamn encyclopedia!"

He was guilty as charged and she had known him for only six months, but already he knew how hopeless she was. He accepted the enormous Bible nonetheless and told her to leave it and the shoes at the desk with his name and his number. Made her write it down as though she might have trouble remembering five numbers in a row. She had brought ham sandwiches too (his letter said they could have a picnic-type lunch in the visitors' quarters) but he was too nervous and irritated to eat.

The other visitors seemed to be having a lovely time with their prisoners. Children teased each other; curled up in the arms of their fathers, playing with their faces, hair, fingers. Women and girls touched the men, whispered, laughed out loud. They were the regulars-familiar with the bus drivers, the guards and coffee wagon personnel. The prisoners' eyes were soft with pleasure. They noticed everything, commented on everything. The report cards little boys brought to them in fat brown envelopes; the barrettes in the little girls' hair; the state of the women's coats. They listened carefully to details of friends and family not there; had advice and instruction for every piece of domestic news. They seemed terribly manly to Seneca-leaderlike in their management of the visit. From where to sit, where to put the paper wrappings, to medical advice and books to send. What they never spoke of was what was going on inside, and they did not ever acknowledge the presence of the guards. Perhaps Attica was on their minds.

Maybe, she thought, as his sentence wore on, Eddie would be like that. Not furious, victimized, as he was on this their first visit since he was arraigned. Whining. Blaming. The Bible so big it embarrassed him. Mustard instead of mayo on the sandwiches. He didn't want to hear anything about her new job at a school cafeteria. Only Sophie and Bernard interested him: their diets. Was she letting them out at night? They needed a good long run. Use their muzzles only when they are outside.

She left Eddie Turtle in the visitors' hall promising him four things. To send pictures of the dogs. To sell the stereo. To get his mother to cash the savings bonds. To call the lawyer. Send, sell, get, call. That's how she would remember.

Heading for the bus shelter, Seneca tripped and fell on one knee.

A guard stepped forward and helped her up.

"Watch it, there, miss."

"Sorry. Thanks."

"How you girls expect to walk in those things, I don't know."

"Supposed to be good for you," she said, smiling. "Where? In Holland?" He laughed pleasantly, showing two rows of gold fillings.

Seneca adjusted her string bag and asked him, "How far is Wichita from here?"

"Depends on how you traveling. In a car it'd be-oh-ten, twelve hours. Bus, longer."

"Oh."

"You got family in Wichita?"

"Yes. No. Well, my boyfriend does. I'm going to pay his mother a visit."

The guard removed his cap to smooth his crew cut. "That's nice," he said. "Good barbecue in Wichita. Make sure you get you some." Somewhere in Wichita there probably was very good barbecue, but not in Mrs. Turtle's house. Her house was strictly vegetarian. Nothing with hooves, feathers, shell or scales appeared on her table. Seven grains and seven greens-eat one of each (and only one) each day, and you lived forever. Which she planned to do, and no, she wasn't about to cash in the savings bonds her husband left her for anybody, let alone somebody who drove a car over a child and left it there, even if that somebody was her only son.

"Oh, no, Mrs. Turtle. He didn't know it was a little kid. Eddie thought it was a… a…"

"What?" asked Mrs. Turtle. "What did he think it was?"

"I forgot what he told me, but I know he wouldn't do that. Eddie loves kids. He really does. He's really very sweet. He asked me to bring him a Bible."

"He's sold it by now."

Seneca looked away. The television screen flickered. On it, gravefaced men lied softly, courteously to each other.

"Little girl, you've known him less than a growing season. I've known him all his life."

"Yes, m'am."

"You think I'm going to let him put me in the poorhouse so a slick lawyer can stay rich?"

"No, m'am."

"You been watching those Watergate lawyers?"

"No, m'am. Yes, m'am."

"Well, then. Don't say another word about it. You want some supper or not?"

The grain was wheat bread; the green was kale. Strong iced tea helped wash them both down.

Mrs. Turtle did not offer a bed for the night, so Seneca hoisted her bag and walked down the quiet street in Wichita's soft evening air. She had not quit her job to make this trip, but the supervisor made it clear that an absence this soon was not to a new employee's advantage. Perhaps she was already fired. Maybe Mrs. Turtle would let her telephone her housemates to see if anyone had called to say "Don't bother coming back." Seneca turned around, retracing her steps. At the door, her knuckles lifted for the knock, she heard sobbing.

A flat-out helpless mothercry-a sound like no other in the world. Seneca stepped back, then went to the window, pressing her left hand to her chest to keep her heart down. She kept it there-imagining its small red valves stuttering, faltering, trying to get back on line-as she fled down the brick steps out to the sidewalk, skirting dirt streets, then macadam, then concrete all the way to the bus station. Only when she was sitting frog-legged on a molded plastic bench did she surrender to the wails that continued to careen in her head. Alone, without witness, Mrs. Turtle had let go her reason, her personality, and shrieked for all the world like the feathered, finned and hoofed whose flesh she never ate-the way a gull, a cow whale, a mother wolf might if her young had been snatched away. Her hands had been in her hair; her mouth wide open in a drenched face.

Short-breathed and dry-mouthed, Seneca escaped from the sobs.

Rushing down broad streets and narrow, slowing when near the business part of town. Upon entering the station she bought peanuts and ginger ale from the vending machines and was immediately sorry, since she really wanted sweet, not salt. Ankles crossed, knees spread, she sat on a bench in the waiting room, pocketed the nuts and sipped the ginger ale. Finally her panic subsided and the screams of a hurt woman were indistinguishable from everyday traffic. Nighttime coming, and the station was as crowded as a morning commuter stop. The warm September day had not cooled when the sun set. There was no worthy difference between the thick air of the waiting room and the air outside. Passengers and their companions appeared calm, hardly interested in the journey or the farewell. Most of the children were asleep, on laps, luggage and seats. Those who were not tortured anyone they could. Adults fingered tickets, blotted dampness from their necks, patted babies and murmured to each other. Soldiers and sweethearts examined the schedules posted behind glass. Four teenaged boys with stocking caps on their heads sang softly near the vending machines. A man in a gray chauffeur's uniform strolled the floor as though looking for his passenger. A handsome man in a wheelchair navigated himself gracefully through the entrance, only slightly annoyed by the inconvenient design of the door. There were two hours and twenty minutes before Seneca's bus departed, so she wondered if she should spend it at one of the movies she'd passed. Serpico, The Exorcist, The Sting, were the hot choices, but it felt like betrayal to see any one of them without Eddie's arm around her shoulder. Thinking of his predicament and her bumbling efforts to help him, Seneca sighed heavily, but there was no danger of tears. She had not shed one even when she found Jean's letter next to the Lorna Doones. Well cared for, loved, perhaps, by the mothers in both of the foster homes, she knew it was not her self that the mothers had approved of but the fact that she took reprimand quietly, ate what given, shared what she had and never ever cried. The ginger ale was rattling through the straw when the chauffeur stood before her and smiled.