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

Becky nodded, drawn to her kindness.

“She’s a special child,” Mariol said. “She’s fortunate to have parents who understand.” She looked at Anne companionably. “And lucky, too, to have an aunt who understands.” And Becky wondered if Anne, in her own childhood, had not been so lucky.

16

L EE PAUSED INthe doorway, watching across the visiting room where Morgan stood hugging his family. The minute Morgan entered, the little girl had flung herself at him, he’d hugged her tight and drawn his wife close. Lee couldn’t see much of the child from the back, her long blond hair, one strand caught on the collar of her blue gingham dress. Her gangly legs with several scratches, tomboy legs. And the eager way she clung to Morgan, the three of them wrapped around one another, their voices soft and caressing. Lee wanted to turn away, this emotional family reunion had nothing to do with him. Painfully out of place, he’d rather head back to his cell and crawl in his bunk.

The room itself seemed out of place, had no relationship to the rest of the prison; even the bars on the wide windows were half disguised by the potted white flowers on the sills. He stood not on hard concrete but on a tan tweed carpet, the walls painted white instead of government green. Soft-looking couches and chairs were set about in little family groupings, the effect cozy and unreal. Taking in the unnatural scene, he turned to leave—but he didn’t leave. He had promised Morgan.

And something else held him, the child held him, her likeness to Mae made him turn to watch her. From the back she looked so like Mae that he felt jerked into the past, returned to their childhood. Her thin body as light-boned as a fledgling bird, just like Mae, her long legs and the way she stood as if she might leap away any instant. He wished she’d turn around, but he was afraid of what he’d see.

Last night he hadn’t slept well, he’d coughed all night, after the cotton mill. Awake and choking, he had tossed restlessly thinking about today, thinking about the child who was so like Mae, who dreamed as Mae dreamed. Periodically he had sat up on his bunk and done his breathing exercises, but it had been impossible to get enough air. He’d skipped breakfast this morning, had drunk some coffee and then sat in the thin winter sun hoping it would warm him. It would be Christmas soon; some wag had tied a red bow on the railing of the stairs that led down from the industries buildings. He had stood looking at it and thinking about this visit, about Sammie and about Mae, feeling curious and uneasy.

Now he sat down in the nearest chair watching the cozy family. Watched Morgan draw his wife and child to a couch where they sat close together. Becky was tall and slim, built like her daughter but with dark hair falling to her shoulders. She wore a plain tan coat over her skirt and white blouse, sheer stockings and flat shoes. He was watching the way Morgan held her so tenderly when the little girl turned, looking across the room at him. The shock sent him weak.

He was looking at Mae. This was Mae, this was his sister. The long-ago memories flooded back. Holding her hand as they waded in the drying stream on a scorching summer day—bundling Mae up in scarves and gloves in the freezing winter, lifting her onto his homemade sled. Mae slipping away from their mother to the saddled horses, scrambling up into the saddle by herself.

Mae crossed the room to him . . . But not Mae. This was Sammie. She ran to him reaching for him, same dark brown eyes as Mae, same long blond hair tangled around her ears, Mae’s own elfin smile. She stopped a few feet from him, shy suddenly. But then she flew at him, she was in his lap, her arms around him as if she’d known him forever. How warm she was, like a hound pup, shockingly warm and sweet smelling. This was Mae, this was his little sister, her hug infinitely comforting.

But of course she wasn’t Mae, this was Morgan Blake’s child, this was Sammie Blake who had dreamed of him in the same inexplicable way that Mae dreamed, seeing what she couldn’t know.

Seeing his unease, Sammie lowered her eyes and drew back, her look as coolly shuttered as any grown-up’s, shy and removed suddenly, plucking at the doll she carried. From the couch, Morgan and Becky watched them in silence, Becky’s hands twisting in her lap, the moment as brittle as glass—until Sammie reached to touch his face.

“Where is your horse?”

Lee stared at her.

“Where is your gray horse?”

No one knew about the gray, Lee had never talked to Morgan about horses, the young mechanic had no interest in horses. Certainly he would never mention the gelding on which he had escaped after the post office robbery; he had never told Morgan about the robbery. “I don’t have a horse. You can’t have a horse in prison.”

“But you do. You have a horse. The gray horse. Where is he?”

If she had dreamed of the gray, had she dreamed of the robbery, too? “Sorry,” he said. “No horse. The prison guards won’t let me keep one.”

This child knew secrets she shouldn’t know, she had seen into his life as no normal person could do. He didn’t know what else she might have dreamed, he was sorry he’d come, today. When he looked up, Becky’s face was closed and unreadable, her hands joined with Morgan’s, their fingers gripped together telegraphing their unease. When again Sammie started to speak, Lee rose, lifting her. He needed to get out of there. But when he tried to put her in her father’s lap she clutched him around the neck and wouldn’t let go.

He pried her arms loose. “You have to stay with your daddy, I have to leave now.” He handed her forcibly to Morgan, muttered a weak good-bye, and quickly turned away. Hurrying across the big room he could feel Sammie’s hurt and disappointment. Unfinished business weighed on the child—and weighed on Becky and Morgan. Too much had been left unsaid, urging him to turn back. But he didn’t turn; he pushed on out through the heavy door, nodded to the guard and hurried through the corridors to the safety of his cell. Crawling under the blanket shivering, he didn’t want to deal with this. But at the same time, he was drawn to Sammie and to the mystery of the Blake family that seemed, that had to be a part of his own life.

L EE WOKE WHENthe Klaxon rang for first shift supper. He had slept for over an hour. He thought of skipping the meal, he didn’t want to sit with Morgan, didn’t want to try to explain how uncomfortable the child made him, he didn’t want to talk. But in the end he decided he’d better eat something. Maybe Morgan would eat later, slip in at second shift. He washed his face, combed his hair, pulled on the wool jacket the prison had issued when the weather turned cool, and headed out along the catwalk. They’d have to talk sometime, he just hoped it wasn’t tonight.

In the mess hall, getting his tray, he chose a table in the farthest corner, hoping Morgan wouldn’t show. But of course when he looked back at the line, there he was. In a few minutes he set his tray down across from Lee.

Lee had invented a number of fake explanations for departing the visiting room so abruptly; but this morning, leaving his cell, something had made him slip Mae’s picture in his pocket. Now, when Morgan began quizzing him, he handed it across the table.

Morgan looked at the picture, frowning. Sammie was dressed as he had never seen her in a white pinafore, shiny black shoes, and white socks. She was standing before a three-rail pasture fence, a couple of steers off in the distance, a place Morgan had never been.

“My sister,” Lee said. “Taken when we were kids. Mae was about eight.”

Morgan frowned at Sammie’s dark eyes and perky smile, Sammie’s pale hair hanging down her thin shoulders. Except for her old-fashioned clothes, this child was Sammie. Morgan looked for a very long time, then looked up at Lee.