Sidney Sheldon - If Tomorrow Comes

l won't be here at the end of the month, Tracy thought, but aloud she said, “That will be fine.”

“You can start in the morning. The head matron will give you the details.”

“Thank you, Warden.”

He looked at Tracy and was tempted to say something more. He was not quite sure what. Instead, he said, “That's all.”

When Tracy broke the news to Ernestine, the black woman said thoughtfully, “That means they gonna make you a trusty. You'll get the run of the prison. That might make bustin' out a little easier.”

“How do I do it?” Tracy asked.

“You got three choices, but they're all risky. The first way is a sneak-out. You use chewin' gum one night to jam the locks on your cell door and the corridor doors. You sneak outside to the yard, throw a blanket over the barbed wire, and you're off and runnin'.”

With dogs and helicopters after her. Tracy could feel the bullets from the guns of the guards tearing into her. She shuddered. “What are the other ways?”

“The second way's a breakout. That's where you use a gun and take a hostage with you. If they catch you, they'll give you a deuce with a nickel tail.” She saw Tracy's puzzled expression. “That's another two to five years on your sentence.”

“And the third way?”

“A walkaway. That's for trusties who are out on a work detail. Once you're out in the open, girl, you jest keep movin'.”

Tracy thought about that. Without money and a car and a place to hide out, she would have no chance. “They'd find out I was gone at the next head count and come looking for me.”

Ernestine sighed. “There ain't no perfect escape plan, girl. That's why no one's ever made it outta this place.”

I will, Tracy vowed. I will.

The morning Tracy was taken to Warden Brannigan's home marked her fifth month as a prisoner. She was nervous about meeting the warden's wife and child, for she wanted this job desperately. It was going to be her key to freedom.

Tracy walked into the large, pleasant kitchen and sat down. She could feel the perspiration bead and roll down from her underarms. A woman clad in a muted rose-colored housecoat appeared in the doorway.

She said, “Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

The woman started to sit, changed her mind, and stood. Sue Ellen Brannigan was a pleasant-faced blonde in her middle thirties, with a vague, distracted manner. She was thin and hyper, never quite sure how to treat the convict servants. Should she thank them for doing their jobs, or just give them orders? Should she be friendly, or treat them like prisoners? Sue Ellen still had not gotten used to the idea of living in the midst of drug addicts and thieves and killers.

“I'm Mrs. Brannigan,” she rattled on. “Amy is almost five years old, and you know how active they are at that age. I'm afraid she has to be watched all the time.” She glanced at Tracy's left hand. There was no wedding ring there, but these days, of course, that meant nothing. Particularly with the lower classes, Sue Ellen thought. She paused and asked delicately, “Do you have children?”

Tracy thought of her unborn baby. “No.”

“I see.” Sue Ellen was confused by this young woman. She was not at all what she had expected. There was something almost elegant about her. “I'll bring Amy in.” She hurried out of the room.

Tracy looked around. It was a fairly large cottage, neat and attractively furnished. It seemed to Tracy that it had been years since she had been in anyone's home. That was all part of the other world, the world outside.

Sue Ellen came back into the room holding the hand of a young girl. “Amy, this is —” Did one call a prisoner by her first or last name? She compromised. “This is Tracy Whitney.”

“Hi,” Amy said. She had her mother's thinness and deepset, intelligent hazel eyes. She was not a pretty child, but there was an open friendliness about her that was touching.

I won't let her touch me.

“Are you going to be my new nanny?”

“Well, I'm going to help your mother look after you.”

“Judy went out on parole, did you know that? Are you going out on parole, too?”

No, Tracy thought. She said, “I'm going to be here for a long while, Amy.”

“That's good,” Sue Ellen said brightly. She colored in embarrassment and bit her lip. “I mean —” She whirled around the kitchen and started explaining Tracy's duties to her. “You'll have your meals with Amy. You can prepare breakfast for her and play with her in the morning. The cook will make lunch here. After lunch, Amy has a nap, and in the afternoon she likes walking around the grounds of the farm. I think it's so good for a child to see growing things, don't you?”

“Yes.”

The farm was on the other side of the main prison, and the twenty acres, planted with vegetables and fruit trees, were tended by trusties. There was a large artificial lake used for irrigation, surrounded by a stone wall that rose above it.

The next five days were almost like a new life for Tracy. Under different circumstances, she would have enjoyed getting away from the bleak prison walls, free to walk around the farm and breathe the fresh country air, but all she could think about was escaping. When she was not on duty with Amy, she was required to report back to the prison. Each night Tracy was locked in her cell, but in the daytime she had the illusion of freedom. After breakfast in the prison kitchen, she walked over to the warden's cottage and made breakfast for Amy. Tracy had learned a good deal about cooking from Charles, and she was tempted by the varieties of foodstuffs on the warden's shelves, but Amy preferred a simple breakfast of oatmeal or cereal with fruit. Afterward, Tracy would play games with the little girl or read to her. Without thinking. Tracy began teaching Amy the games her mother had played with her.

Amy loved puppets. Tracy tried to copy Shari Lewis's Lamb Chop for her from one of the warden's old socks, but it turned out looking like a cross between a fox and a duck. “I think it's beautiful,” Amy said loyally.

Tracy made the puppet speak with different accents: French, Italian, German, and the one Amy adored the most, Paulita's Mexican lilt. Tracy would watch the pleasure oft the child's face and think, I won't become involved. She's just my means of getting out of this place.

After Amy's afternoon nap, the two of them would take long walks, and Tracy saw to it that they covered areas of the prison grounds she had not seen before. She carefully observed every exit and entrance and how the guard towers were manned and noted when the shifts changed. It became obvious to her that none of the escape plans she had discussed with Ernestine would work.

“Has anyone ever tried to escape by hiding in one of the service trucks that deliver things to the prison? I've seen milk trucks and food —”

“Forget it,” Ernestine said flatly. “Every vehicle comin' in and goin' out of the gate is searched.”

At breakfast one morning, Amy said, “I love you, Tracy. Will you be my mother?”

The words sent a pang through Tracy. “One mother is enough. You don't need two.”

“Yes, I do. My friend Sally Ann's father got married again, and Sally Ann has two mothers.”

“You're not Sally Ann,” Tracy said curtly. “Finish your breakfast.”

Amy was looking at her with hurt eyes. “I'm not hungry anymore.”

“All right. I'll read to you, then.”

As Tracy started to read, she felt Amy's soft little hand on hers.

“Can I sit on your lap?”

“No.” Get your affection from your own family, Tracy thought. You don't belong to me. Nothing belongs to me.

The easy days away from the routine of the prison somehow made the nights worse. Tracy loathed returning to her cell, hated being caged in like an animal. She was still unable to get used to the screams that came from nearby cells in the uncaring darkness. She would grit her teeth until her jaws ached. One night at a time, she promised herself. I can stand one night at a time.