There is a dim carpeted alcove off the entrance outfitted with a coffeemaker, a Xerox, and an elderly snack machine reading TOM’S! Lisa flicks a button. The sound of the drip cuts thinly through the room. We all stare at it for a moment before I gesture to Lisa’s fingernails. “That’s a very striking shade of purple,” I say.
“Thank you!” She brandishes one hand, plump hip riding out cheerily. “It’s my favorite.”
“What’s it called?”
“They called it Purple Rain at the salon.”
“Nice.” I turn to see if Mel will catch my eye this time. She doesn’t.
I dig out quarters for a pack of Nutter Butters while Lisa Greaph spreads paperwork over the table, explaining the release forms, remains custody, marking the places requiring signatures. She gives Mel a copy of the death certificate. She explains the term septicemia.
Mel flips and scribbles. Says suddenly, “How long was she in the hospital?”
“After she was brought in? About four days.”
“Was she awake for any of this?”
“For the first three. It was quick. That’s probably why they didn’t call you before. She asked that they not bother you.”
Out of the cabinet, Lisa produces a round porcelain sugar bowl and a creamer with a mother-of-pearl spout. She gives each a quick wipe with a napkin before placing them on the table. “One of the outreach programs here at the prison is a crafts class. I teach it sometimes. On the second day, she was feeling good enough to ask for her yarn and needles. It’s in the notes. Then the day before surgery was planned to repair some of the damage, she fell into a coma. Sometimes ruptures are delayed by bed rest, and then bothered by the least little thing. They think that’s what happened. Even four days after the altercation.”
“Altercation?” I ask.
“The wound happened during a fight.” Lisa’s eyes go wide. “Did the office not mention that?”
Mel leans back in her chair, legs splayed, rubs her eyes with one hand. Her other hand lies stretched toward her cup.
Lisa shakes her head. “That office. I swear. I wouldn’t believe it, but they’ve actually done this before. I’m so sorry, Melody. I don’t know exactly how it happened. The prison files separate reports for incidents, and you could find out from there. It was a puncture, I do know that, in her midsection. And it was made with a handmade instrument. Probably something with lots of little nooks and crannies that could do damage.” She trails off. “She was just so sweet. Just as nice as she could be.”
She pours. I raise the cup to my lips. This is not office coffee. This is a special reserve, something subtle and sweet Lisa Greaph has held back. I look at Mel. She’s gnawing on her upper lip, coffee untouched.
“She knitted?” she says.
“Oh yes. She was getting good, too.”
Mel is quiet. Then she says, “Do inmates have access to TV? Is there a satellite here or something?”
“There is a TV in the common room,” Lisa says. “But no satellite. It’s only network channels and then some other things, PBS and QVC and Telemundo, mainly. I only know because the girls complain about it during craft class.”
“Huh,” Mel says. She picks up her cup, studies it, gnawing on her lower lip. I know what she’s thinking, but I can’t bring myself to ask for her.
She takes a deep breath and does it herself. “Did I mention that Sharon and I are filmmakers?”
Lisa smiles. Shakes her head.
“Well, cartoons. We make cartoons. We’re animators. I, uh, hadn’t been in touch with Mom in a while. I was curious as to whether she might have seen something we just made.”
Lisa tilts her head in thought. “Well, I can’t recollect many cartoons being shown on movie nights. That’s out in the courtyard, during good weather? Most of the gals like romantic comedies. You know. Reese Witherspoon and such.”
I have to stifle a giggle.
“What was the name of your all’s movie?”
“Nashville Combat,” Mel says.
“I don’t believe I’ve heard of it, but it sounds interesting. What’s it about?”
“It’s about Kelly Kay.” Mel traces her cup with one finger.
“Well, my goodness. That’s every girl’s dream, isn’t it? To have a movie made about her?”
“It’s about her being a whore,” Mel says.
“Oh.” Lisa’s smile fades. I expect her expression to cool, but the look is soft, one of distinct pity. I shift in my chair. “Well, I’d say if you never told her about it, she never ran across it. The girls have Internet access, but only for short times, and mostly to email friends and family and what have you. Maybe she saw it there. But I don’t know.”
Mel closes her eyes briefly, then opens them. Grabs the pen and scrawls her name on the last page of the stack, unseeing.
Lisa looks back and forth between us, hesitating. “On the bottom of page five, there’s an information box where it tells you how to contact the prison and get a copy of the report. It’s only for family members. It takes a few months.”
“You know what, we should go.” Mel grabs the folder Lisa set out for her. “Thanks for, you know. Everything.”
Lisa stands. “I hope you ladies didn’t have far to come. Whereabouts do you live?”
“New York,” I tell her.
“New York City?”