Hard Time (8 page)

My throat felt tight, my head dizzy. I felt as cloudy and wound up as if he were actually here, touching me.

You think about us by a lake, on the grass. I think about us in your cell, sometimes. I can hear thunder outside. Are you in your cell now? Can you hear it, too? It must be such a lonely place, yet so devoid of any privacy. When I imagine it, it’s only us, and I bring all those things you miss into a place where you don’t get to feel them. I want to lie with you on your bed, and see your eyes from close up. I see fire in them from across a table or a room, and I bet if we were together on that tiny bed, I’d feel it on my face like actual flames. I want to kiss you and feel how hungry you must be for a woman, after all this time. I want to slide my hand between our bodies and find you excited. I want to make you feel a hundred things at once—powerless and aggressive, needy and pushy, grateful and greedy. Everything a man can feel with a woman.

I want nastier things, too. Like you braced above me and your hips pumping hard.

I took a deep gulp from my sweating glass of ice water, fever burning me alive.

I want to see everything as it happens between our bodies, the way yours would fit with mine. How fast you’d go when you were working to please me. And how fast you’d go when your turn came. I want to feel how much you want me,
I wrote, hand shaking,
with your cock. Feel how hard and thick and hot you’d get for me.

Should I tell him . . . ? No, I shouldn’t. But I did.

That’s what I think about, when I touch myself. Your body. The way it must look when you’re in the exercise yard, and how it’d look, laboring for me. And the things you’d say, in that deep voice of yours. You think my accent’s all sweet and feminine. Yours is just the opposite to me. Dark and hard and male. I want to feel everything that’s different about us in the way we’d fuck.

Christ, I was a mess. My fingers were slippery around the pen. I was wet between my legs, from nothing more than wording these thoughts. I couldn’t actually give him this letter—it would push our bizarre affair so far over the line . . . But I couldn’t not finish it, either.

Six days to find my senses, I reminded myself. Six whole days.

When I read your letters, I hear them in my mind, in your voice. And I play them back in my head, when I touch myself. I imagine the thoughts you’ve shared as much as any physical thing I might picture us doing. When I come I’m always thinking about the words you say, and your eyes staring down at me—the parts of you I know for sure. That’s what I think about, when I come. Your eyes and your words and your voice.

I hope this letter’s found you well, or as well as can be expected. I’ll see you as the fates allow. Until then, I’m yours on these pages.

Your darling. In whatever color you please.

Six days, but I never came to my senses.

I wandered even farther from my senses, in fact, and on Wednesday afternoon I made a trip to the mall a few towns over. I didn’t own any hot underwear, and for the first time in ages I thought maybe I’d like to change that. Sure, I’d be wearing it for myself. Unseen at Cousins and on my weird, dateless dates on my couch. But Collier had asked me to, and I liked doing what he said, in this safe way. I liked letting him dress me.

Victoria’s Secret looked like a magical fairyland—a riot of patterns and flower scents and frilly lace and shiny satin. I wished he’d told me what color, what sort of style, anything. I didn’t have the first clue what made me feel sexy aside from his words.

I wandered between the displays, waiting for something to catch my eyes.

What would be the most exotic, to him?

I thought of the poppy shirt, of that inciting, bright red. Nothing like the navy uniforms and the endless drab cinderblock of Cousins. So red, maybe . . .

But no. I stopped before a very different option. Crisp spring green.

There’s not much grass here . . .

Green, the color of freedom, of summers by whatever lake he’d mentioned. Grass, the blanket he wanted to lay me down on.

I’ve been learning all about plants.

It must be nice, to get outside.

It sure is.

I grabbed a bra in my size, nearly plain compared to some of the other styles. A bit of lace at the tops of the cups, and lace panels at the hips of the matching panties. Not a thong—I didn’t think I’d like to work a long, sweaty shift in one of those—but not especially innocent in the back, either.

Your personal garden to tend, Eric,
I mused as I set them beside the register, feeling high and cheesy and happily dim.

If only you could visit it.

Though thank goodness you can’t.

* * *

Before I left for Cousins the next Friday, I sealed my letter and wrote
Darren Heating and Plumbing
on the envelope, with my own address beneath it. Added a stamp. Just in case Shonda saw it in my notebook.
Oh,
I’d say.
I’d been meaning to pop that in the mail. Just had a leaky pipe fixed.

Paranoid, scheming liar. That’s what I’d become. And an idiot to boot.

The whole thing was foolish. Terrifically foolish. I’d remove the pages from the envelope before I handed over the letter, secreting it among some other papers, but I had no guarantee Eric wouldn’t show it to his buddies—or even to an officer, if for some reason he wanted to try to get me fired. Or threaten to get me fired, unless I did who knew what. I hadn’t signed it, hadn’t mentioned my job or Fridays or any other incriminating hints . . . But handwriting was handwriting. And rules were rules.
You will not speak to or touch any inmate in an inappropriate way. You will not encourage an inmate to speak to or touch you in an inappropriate way.

Double check.

But he’s never even once asked me to write back.
He’d never angled to get his hands on anything he might use to take advantage of me. He’d kept the evidence flowing in one direction, with me safely upstream.

Shonda didn’t so much as take the notebook out of my tote. She didn’t check my clothes, either, not the short-sleeved raspberry pink button-up I set on the table, or the flats that were slapping over the cement floor of the dayroom a couple of minutes later.

Slap, slap, slap. Whore, whore, whore,
they seemed to chant.

Whores wear red,
I told them.

Pink’s just red with some cream mixed in, you silly slut.

But underneath, grass green. Clean as spring. Yet so damn dirty.

I found Eric’s face, just for a second.
Guess,
I told him with my eyes.
Bet you can’t.

He caught me earlier than usual during Resources that afternoon, and I wondered if he had any clue how nervous I felt. How
terrified
. Terrified of what I was about to hand him, and terrified that I might get caught. When he came over to where I’d just finished helping another inmate with a letter, I started shaking all over, like an honest-to-God train was rumbling through the building.

“Hey there,” I said, and smiled. My anxiety had to be plain.
I’m not afraid of you,
I wanted to tell him.
I’m afraid of me. What I’m capable of.

“Afternoon.” He took the vacated seat across from me. He’d brought a book with him, an oversized blue paperback called
The Essential Garden Maintenance Workbook.

“Is that for your work release?” I asked, pointing to it.

“Kind of. The guy who manages the program lent it to me. Can I ask you to help me read a couple things? There’s lots of words in here I don’t understand.”

I nodded. “Of course.” I moved my chair to the end of the table and angled the book between us. His knee brushed mine, and even through two pairs of pants it was the most explicit contact I’d ever felt. I shut my eyes for a breath, heat burning my cheeks.
Act normal. Act normal.
I opened the book.

“Show me.”

“I marked a couple spots,” he said. He flipped to a dog-eared page, and casual as you please, he slid out what had become an absolute fetish object to me—a folded, lined piece of paper. He set it aside, near my hand.

“This here,” he said, tapping a section header. “I don’t understand what this is saying.”

“‘Herbaceous perennials,’” I read aloud. “I don’t understand what that means, either. But we can figure it out between us, I bet.”

As I skimmed the chapter with him, I felt my mouth moving, heard myself speaking. But with his warm knee touching mine and his voice so close, everything else seemed to fade, like the contents of a cabinet veiled by frosted glass. His knee. Both his knees, I imagined, spread between mine. This voice asking me such different questions.
Like that? Harder? Faster?

The fog lifted as I sensed another inmate in my periphery. He was standing at a polite distance with a book of his own tucked at his side, watching.

“Is that enough for now?” I asked Eric, sitting up straight.

“Yeah. That’s real helpful, thanks.”

“Before I forget,” I said, nice and loud and casual as I stood, instantly mourning the loss of his heat. “I brought you some worksheets. Up to you if you use them, but they might be helpful.” From my bag I drew out a fat stack of photocopies I’d made, my letter hidden among them. I handed them over, then took his folded pages and slipped them into my notebook, smooth as a grifter.

“Thanks,” he said, closing the sheets in the landscaping book. “’Preciate that.”

And with a smile that I hoped belied my hammering heart, I turned my attention to the waiting inmate.

The whole drive home, all I could think was,
I really did that, didn’t I? I really gave him that letter.
And the adrenaline high went sour in a heartbeat.

Shit, shit, shit.

I didn’t know this man at all. Did I?

It felt like I’d walked right up to him, handed him a glinting knife, and asked if he’d please cut the tag out of my shirt collar. Maybe he would. Or maybe he’d grab my chin and slit my throat. He could hurt me so badly with those words that had made me feel so good to write. I’d handed them right over. A weapon custom-made to destroy me.

Sure, there was no ALA law about librarians getting involved with the convicts they worked with—we didn’t have a code of ethics the way a counselor or medical professional might—but the entire situation demonstrated a
remarkable
abundance of poor judgment on my part.

It was like a switch got flipped. I went from giddy to panicked, instantly. I couldn’t even bring myself to read his latest letter—not until I knew what he’d do with mine. The only thing I did was peek at the very bottom of it.

Wear yellow and I’ll tell you more.

Yellow. I didn’t even know if I wanted to wear what he told me to, this time. Not when I had no clue what his next letter might say.

Wear white,
it might say. Then,
Meet this guy, get this key, transport the cocaine from storage locker 707 to this address and only accept small bills. If you don’t, I’ll send your dirty letter to the warden and get you fired. By the way, I write just fine. Boo-hoo about your mean old ex-boyfriend, you stupid slut.

Oh God oh God oh God
, what had I done?

I checked my phone obsessively through the next week, positive my boss’s number would appear at any moment and inform me that we needed to have a meeting. Immediately.

It never did, but I never relaxed, either. I shoved my new green bra and panties way underneath my boring underwear in its drawer, barely able to identify myself as the woman who’d felt so slinky and mischievous buying them. I hid his letters down there as well. I grieved for the loss of what I’d had these past few weeks. This thing that had felt so good, suddenly gone. All my fault.

On Friday morning I stared at the yellow shirt hanging in my closet.
I couldn’t wear that. But if I didn’t, he might think I was through with him, and then he might really get mean.

I compromised. I wore a black short-sleeved button-up, gray pants. No color anywhere, save for the yellow silk flower on the elastic I wound around my ponytail. Just a little wink of complicity. A little insurance policy, keeping him nice.

It was my longest day at Cousins so far. The longest day of my life. A month crammed into eight hours.

I was nauseated, and skipping lunch hadn’t helped. My stomach was a clenching fist, my nerves a swarm of hornets. For the first time ever, when Collier came through the door at the end of Resources, I felt cold, not hot.

Oh God oh God.

He had that book with him again, and a big manila envelope. He waited until I was done looking something up for another man, then wandered over to stand by where I was sitting.

I smiled as much as I could, lips hard and bloodless.

“You all right?” he asked, his brows drawing together.

“Yes. Fine. You?”

He shrugged. “I suppose. I did those worksheets you gave me.”

He handed me the envelope. Someone had removed its metal clasp—hopefully a staff member. Not wanting to appear suspicious to the officers, I slid the papers out halfway. And he had actually done the worksheets, or at least the top one. It had never occurred to me that he might.

“Great,” I said. “I’ll take a look before next week.”

He stood there a second, not saying anything. A beat later, I realized something that broke my heart. He was hoping I had another letter for him.

I got to my feet right as the bell rang. “I better get myself organized.”

A single nod. “Enjoy your weekend.”

“Thanks.”

“I like that thing in your hair,” he added quietly. “Reminds me of marigolds.”

I replied with another smile, a sadder one, tight with confusion and uncertainty, and I headed for the door. I ran from the man whose body only last week I’d wanted to feel wrapped around my own.

It had been gray all day, and the rain finally arrived as I was grabbing my things from the office. I watched a sheet of water descend on the empty exercise yard, sudden and solid as a dropped curtain. My car was barely twenty paces from the staff exit, but I was soaked to the bone by the time I climbed into the driver’s seat.

I pulled the manila envelope out of my tote and made sure it wasn’t too wet. I wanted to rip those pages out and find his next letter among them. Read what he had to say about my own letter. But did it matter what he’d say? Even the sweetest words could so easily be a lie. He still held the knife I’d given him.

The downpour had tapered some by the time I reached Darren, and I hugged my bag to my chest, jogging doubled-over to the door.

My clothes felt itchy as I entered my sticky apartment, and I wondered for the hundredth time if I could afford to buy an AC unit. I changed into dry yoga pants and a tank, and I stood staring at the envelope on my coffee table for a long time before I finally sat on the couch and picked it up.

I flipped through the pages slowly, knowing there was a letter from the gap in the stack, from the size difference between the forms and the notebook paper.
A thick letter,
I thought.

Thick with what? Assurances, or criminal instructions? Fuck.

He’d actually filled out all the worksheets, and I’d included nearly twenty of them. This was either a testament to his boredom, or to his dedication to making the ruse look credible, or to his desire to impress me.

I got to the notebook pages. Five of them at least. This must have taken him
hours
. Unless they really were some kind of extortion notice, one he’d composed weeks ago. And maybe not for the first time.

I whooshed out a long breath, and I read.

Darling,

Thank you for the letter. That meant a lot.

I was real angry to read about that guy who didn’t treat you right.

And just like that, my heart slowed. My head cleared.

I try not to get angry in here but that got my blood up. You deserve a man who treats you however you like. In some other life I’d try to be that man. If you wanted me to. In my old life I’d probably go after that guy who treated you bad, but I’m trying to not be that person anymore. I’d rather talk about you and me anyhow.

I think it’s real sad how you didn’t want to feel anything for so long. It’s real sad that a man like me doesn’t get to be that way with a woman, but to hear about a woman just not wanting to feel that is so much sadder. It’s fucked up the way men can hurt women and how much longer it takes to heal than just a bruise or a cut.

I started crying. Hot tears of pure relief, like I’d thought someone I’d loved had died, only to hear they were safe and sound. I let them flow, filling the room with my mewling, primal gasps and moans. I cried like a toddler, with no dignity whatsoever, and when my vision cleared enough, I read on.

You’re a smart woman but I’ve got to say, it was pretty stupid of you writing me that letter. It’s the best thing I’ve been given probably ever but now I have to give it back to you. It’s safer for you that way.