it upstairs, Mattie took a bottle of what I smelled on her neck and sprayed it in that little room. The loving I had done as a young man had come in little stolenplaces, listening for the sound of some girlâs momma and daddy who might open a bedroom door. There was all that stealing time, biting my lip or hiding the sounds that wanted to bubble out with the rest of it. In that hotel, we had a good taste of full-grown loving behind a locked door in a good and wide bed. When we talked afterward, with Mattieâs cheek close to my chest, we didnât need our voices, because the words went straight into skin. As long as I made it home from the war, that was how it would always be.
Behind the Kilby church stood four shacks in a row. If a prisoner was a good worker, and if the warden gave permission, a man and his wife could have a conjugal visit, half an hour twice a year. I spent a day on a crew that cleaned the pine straw from the shacksâ roofs. Each building had two rooms, one where the guard sat and one with a small bed. The doorway had no door, and the windows had no draperies. They rationed husbands and wives to one another, turned what was private into a shame. Any guard strolling by could get an eyeful of what was meant to be hidden. And, Lord, did they stroll. A trusty told me, âYou get used to it after a while. Canât do nothing else if itâs all you got.â
They led the prisoners from the Sunday visiting room to the church. I was close enough to the parking lot to see Mattie and my sister, who had driven her. I was too far away to see their eyes and faces, but they were close enough to be in the same piece of shadow. And Mattie rested her head on Marieâs shoulder, and that was the last I saw of them before I walked through that church door.
I had no choice but to sit in that prison sanctuary, but I did most of my churching in my head. I prayed that Mattie would be happy in her life without me, and I prayed that she would understand when I told her not to come back. When I stopped sending letters. I wouldnât send any more dead manâs words, talking about a love I couldnât bring to her door. I couldnât be anybodyâs man but Kilbyâs.
Chapter 6
E very other Sunday. Fifteen minutes and no more. I was allowed one visitor at a time. That was all I got of my family for nine years and seven months. It was the third Sunday in June, and I walked into the visiting room, looking for my brother sitting in the stall. A stranger sat in his place. When Iâd walked across the yard from my block, Iâd seen Daneâs cab turn off the road, so he must have driven the man who was watching me as I walked to my seat.
It had been seven years since my last visit from a stranger, the last of the lawyers who had tried mightily. After that I told my family to understand that hope had no place in Kilby. I no longer lived for the day when I would go free. I lived for the odd Sunday when I could see my people, if only through the rusted-out wires. If prison had taught me anything, it was to let my face say nothing. So the stranger did not see my disappointment. I had learned to stop craving anything from the world, except for mypeople. With him in my brotherâs place, it would be another thirteen days before I saw family again.
This stranger had a mark across his forehead left from a hat he wore a little bit cocked. He had a brand-new shave. That was something I missed, living someplace where I could lean back, close my eyes, and trust a man to put a razor to my neck.
âMorning, Mr. Weary. Augustine Tate. They call me Skip.â
He rolled his hands along the counter like they held an offering. Some fingers were straighter than others, and that, along with the line of his nose, told me that he had been a fighter. From the gray and wrinkles he carried along his head and his face, it seemed that his fighting days were years behind.
I nodded, but I said nothing,
Behind the Kilby church stood four shacks in a row. If a prisoner was a good worker, and if the warden gave permission, a man and his wife could have a conjugal visit, half an hour twice a year. I spent a day on a crew that cleaned the pine straw from the shacksâ roofs. Each building had two rooms, one where the guard sat and one with a small bed. The doorway had no door, and the windows had no draperies. They rationed husbands and wives to one another, turned what was private into a shame. Any guard strolling by could get an eyeful of what was meant to be hidden. And, Lord, did they stroll. A trusty told me, âYou get used to it after a while. Canât do nothing else if itâs all you got.â
They led the prisoners from the Sunday visiting room to the church. I was close enough to the parking lot to see Mattie and my sister, who had driven her. I was too far away to see their eyes and faces, but they were close enough to be in the same piece of shadow. And Mattie rested her head on Marieâs shoulder, and that was the last I saw of them before I walked through that church door.
I had no choice but to sit in that prison sanctuary, but I did most of my churching in my head. I prayed that Mattie would be happy in her life without me, and I prayed that she would understand when I told her not to come back. When I stopped sending letters. I wouldnât send any more dead manâs words, talking about a love I couldnât bring to her door. I couldnât be anybodyâs man but Kilbyâs.
Chapter 6
E very other Sunday. Fifteen minutes and no more. I was allowed one visitor at a time. That was all I got of my family for nine years and seven months. It was the third Sunday in June, and I walked into the visiting room, looking for my brother sitting in the stall. A stranger sat in his place. When Iâd walked across the yard from my block, Iâd seen Daneâs cab turn off the road, so he must have driven the man who was watching me as I walked to my seat.
It had been seven years since my last visit from a stranger, the last of the lawyers who had tried mightily. After that I told my family to understand that hope had no place in Kilby. I no longer lived for the day when I would go free. I lived for the odd Sunday when I could see my people, if only through the rusted-out wires. If prison had taught me anything, it was to let my face say nothing. So the stranger did not see my disappointment. I had learned to stop craving anything from the world, except for mypeople. With him in my brotherâs place, it would be another thirteen days before I saw family again.
This stranger had a mark across his forehead left from a hat he wore a little bit cocked. He had a brand-new shave. That was something I missed, living someplace where I could lean back, close my eyes, and trust a man to put a razor to my neck.
âMorning, Mr. Weary. Augustine Tate. They call me Skip.â
He rolled his hands along the counter like they held an offering. Some fingers were straighter than others, and that, along with the line of his nose, told me that he had been a fighter. From the gray and wrinkles he carried along his head and his face, it seemed that his fighting days were years behind.
I nodded, but I said nothing,
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