“It looks funny, I know, and it ain’t comfortable. It’s made that way so you can’t shove my head in there,” Gertrude Stimson said. “You know, if you had a mind to.”
Caxton turned and stared at the other woman. Her new roommate—her celly In the general-population dorm where she’d been before, Caxton had seven cellies in a cell about three times as large as this one. They had been morose women, relatively quiet unless one of them was moaning about how badly she wanted a cigarette or another was shaking and moaning with withdrawal symptoms. They had mostly been black, with two Latinas, and they had all spoken Spanish most of the time, a language Caxton barely understood.
Gertrude Stimson was pasty white, with stringy red hair that she kept tied back in a stubby ponytail. Her fingernails, Caxton noted, were chewed down to round red stubs.
“You can call me Gert, or Gerty, it’s one and the same,” she said.
“Caxton.” Caxton didn’t offer her hand.
“Oh, I know you, for sure. You’re famous. They made a movie about you, and those vampires you killed. And then at the town of Gettysburg—”
“I don’t like to talk about that,” Caxton growled.
“I never thought I’d have a famous lady in here, is all,” Stimson said, with a little laugh.
Caxton tried to ignore her and went to the bunk bed. The bottom bunk was clearly Stimson’s. Photographs of babies had been taped up along the wall, but not snapshots—these were just pictures of babies torn from magazines. The bed was unmade, with the blanket shoved down at the bottom in a heap. The top bunk was empty, with nothing on it but a mattress that crinkled when she pushed on it and a pillow made of the same rip-stop nylon as her blanket and washcloth. A plastic bag containing her personal effects lay at the foot of the mattress.
“I want you to know, I’m a little famous myself,” Gert chattered. “But you shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”
Caxton did think the name was slightly familiar, though she couldn’t place where she’d heard it before. No doubt she would get to hear about Gert’s moment of fame in excruciating detail soon enough, so she didn’t bother to ask.
She made the bed carefully, knowing she had plenty of time to keep things neat. Then she opened the bag. The warden had said her things would be moved for her, but there was very little in the bag—her brush, her comb, and most of her books were all missing. She’d been left a couple of dog-eared paperbacks and one photograph. It was a picture of Clara that Caxton had taken one day at a sheriff’s office picnic. It had been in a frame before, but the frame had been seized and the picture removed. One corner had been torn in the process.
“Who’s that? Friend of yours? Or—girlfriend?” Stimson asked, her voice rising slyly at the end. “I heard you was a lesbo, too. So is she? Your girlfriend?”
“None of your business,” Caxton said. She climbed up on the bunk and laid herself out flat. Breakfast was at six-thirty she thought. That was a long time away. She wondered what time lights-out might be. Stimson would know, but she might also take that as a desire on Caxton’s part to start a conversation.
Not that she needed much prompting.
“You been here long? How much longer you got?”
“If it’s alright, I’d like some quiet time,” Caxton said. “I have a lot on my mind.”
“Sure thing,” Stimson said. She disappeared under the bunk and Caxton relaxed a little. She closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind. She could do this. She could stay strong, and do the time quietly and without losing her mind. She could.
From beneath her she heard a high-pitched squeaking sound. Then a muffled grunt of pain. The squeaking sound came again a second later. And again. Eventually she realized that Stimson was chewing her nails.
It was going to be a very long five years.
6.