Shirley Murphy - The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape

“Karen Turner?” Floyd smiled. “It’s good for the men’s morale to see a woman once in a while. She’s a premed student at the university, works for me part-time. She cheers the place up considerably; I think it’s a good change in the system.”

Sure it is, Lee thought. Until you get her hurt.

He doubled back to Paul Camp’s office, where he dropped off the medical form and the work form. Camp handed him a slip for his custodian that would let him move around the area more freely. When Lee asked about the jobs available, Camp said, “I’ll let you know later, Fontana. I’ll see what’s open in industries.”

Outside again, as Lee cut across the yard from classifications, Gimpy turned away from a group of men and limped to join him. “They getting you squared away, Boxcar?”

“Camp put me in one of those group counseling sessions,” Lee said sourly. “I start this afternoon,”

Gimpy chuckled, and scratched his bald spot. “They had me in there for a while. Guess they gave up on me. But hell, Boxcar, it passes the time.”

“I’d rather pass it somewhere else.”

“Maybe you could work in the cotton mill with me. Noisier than hell, but I like it. I like the clatter and activity.”

Lee nodded, interested. He’d feel better when he was doing something. “Let me know if they could use another hand.” He wondered if the doctor would allow it. Maybe, if he promised to wear a mask or kerchief, something to catch the lint, he could get permission.

“I’ll talk to the foreman,” Gimpy said, and swung away with his uneven, rolling gait. Lee stood looking after him; a lot of years had gone by, but Gimpy was still the same. Lee turned away, smiling, heading back to his cell, thinking about the old days.

He was moving along the narrow third-tier catwalk when a man came out of a cell walking slowly, his eyes fixed on the pages of an open book. He was heavy boned, prison pale but built like a barrel, was dressed not in prison blue but in the white pants and white shirt worn in the kitchen, the whiteness stark against the thick black hair on his arms. Lee stepped to one side to let him pass. “I guess we’re neighbors.”

The dark-eyed man smiled. “Al Bronski. I saw you come in last night.”

“Lee Fontana.”

“You looked bushed yesterday. Still feel a little pale?”

“It’s a long pull from Springfield. What are we having for the noon meal?”

“Beef stew and French bread.”

“Sounds good. If I get bored with the routine, are there any jobs in the kitchen?”

“Always use help in the kitchen,” Bronski said. “See me when you’re ready.”

Lee thought he might like the relative quiet of the kitchen better than the noise of the cotton mill, but he’d like to work with Gimpy. Behind Bronski, coming along the catwalk headed for the stairs, were the two men from breakfast this morning, the dark-haired one in the lead, his face frozen in the same pinched scowl, his black eyes fixed on Lee. Behind him, the blond man’s masklike face and pale eyes telegraphed a malice that Lee knew too well. They didn’t move over for Lee and Bronski. When Lee stepped aside on the narrow catwalk to let them pass, the dark man elbowed him against the rail. “Ain’t no place for a gab fest.”

Bronski stiffened and reached for him. The man sidestepped, rounding on Bronski. Bronski crouched, waiting—but a guard shouted from the main floor, and he drew back. The two men pushed on past, pressing them both to the rail and giving them the finger.

“Their cells are down beyond yours,” Bronski said, watching the two swagger away along the catwalk. “The dark one’s Fred Coker. The blond is Sam Delone. There’s been more than one knifing involving those two.”

Lee kept the two in sight until they disappeared down the stairs and outside. He watched Bronski amble along behind them, reading again, then Lee moved on to his cell. Swept by a wave of exhaustion, he lay down on his bunk. Nobody had to spell it out for him. He was back in a big joint, crazy hotheads around him. And more than hotheads, too, with the shadow that fit so easily among Coker and his kind. As much as he’d admired his grandpappy, he wished Russell had never bargained with the devil, wished that in that one instance Russell had backed off and turned away.

The position he was in now, Lee thought, it was time to get himself a weapon. It was one thing to be threatened by prison scum when you were young and strong, when you could handle a battle bare-handed. It was different this late in life, when every move was an effort, when in every threat you saw the face of defeat. Suddenly cold, pulling the blanket over him, bleak and alone, he felt the weight of the ghost cat hit the bed, crowding against him purring like a small engine. He almost laughed when the ghost cat clawed the mattress, licked Lee’s hand with his rough tongue, and said softly, “Screw Coker. Screw Delone. There’s more to this prison, Lee, than you yet know.”

“What? What are you getting at?” But Lee felt the cat curl up as if he’d tucked his head under, and in a moment the ghost was softly snoring. Lee smiled, turned over easy so as not to disturb him, and soon they both slept, Lee drifting off to Misto’s rumbling purr, soothed in his apprehension of the days to come.

9

D RIVING SOUTH TOthe Atlanta Penitentiary to visit Morgan for the first time, Becky made herself sick thinking every ugly thought about his life inside, so upsetting herself that her driving was off. Twice, passing another car on the two-lane highway, she had to swerve fast into a tight space to avoid hitting an oncoming vehicle. She felt as if she was turning into one of those women so ruled by sick nerves they couldn’t do anything right.

Coming into Atlanta, where they would be moving in a few days, driving down Peachtree and on south through mixed commercial and small cottages, she was shaky, her hands unsteady on the wheel. When she drew into the parking area outside the prison wall she sat in the car for a long time trying to pull herself together. She felt so nauseous she was afraid if she went in she’d be sick in the visiting room.

Thinking about leaving Rome didn’t help, about leaving Caroline, thinking how much she depended on her mother—to take care of Sammie, but most of all to be there for them. Caroline was her friend, her best friend except for Morgan. Life was shattered without Morgan and now would be more empty still without Caroline nearby.

But at least living in Atlanta she’d be closer to Morgan, not an all-day trip to visit him. She and Sammie could run over to the prison in just a few minutes, she thought bitterly, just swing by the prison after school like any mother and child.

She got out of the car at last, feeling the stare of the guards from their towers. They would be wondering why she’d sat there for so long. Would they call down for extra security measures because she seemed suspicious? Her neck prickling from their stares, she hurried up the walk, up the steps. She pressed a buzzer, waited for the lock to click, and pushed through the iron door into a six-foot-square sally port, bars and heavy glass trapping her in the small space.

Through the slot in a thick glass barrier she told the guard her name and Morgan’s name. A second guard stepped out of the glassed area, a tall, pale-haired man who asked for her purse. She watched, embarrassed, as he searched around a pack of tampons. Satisfied she wasn’t carrying a weapon he handed it back and motioned her through a door into the prison’s visiting room.

The room didn’t look anything like part of a prison, was far more welcoming than she had expected: tan tweed carpeting, white walls, beige couches, and soft chairs set about in little groups. Half of the seating was already occupied, wives and children, elderly couples, each group gathered around an inmate dressed in prison blue. Most of the men were somber and withdrawn even among their friends and family. One man was so emotional, hugging his wife and children, he was almost in tears. Only two of the prisoners seemed relaxed and at home, chatting away, one man holding two little boys on his lap. She chose an empty couch, stood beside it watching an inner door where Morgan would most likely enter.