The Pink House. Trish MacEnulty

stairs, Lolly stood with light from the window swirling around her, dust motes glittering.

      “Jesus, you are persistent, aren’t you? I told you, Lolly, I can’t come help out with your prison class,” Jen said, turning her back and heading into the kitchen for a Diet Pepsi. Lolly followed with that familiar clomping motion. “I’ve got to earn a living, you know. Some of us don’t have free rent.”

      “I’ll pay you,” Lolly said.

      Jen slowly pivoted on one foot and looked at her sister.

      “How much?”

      “Is two thousand okay?”

      Jen sighed. Two thousand would be perfect.

      “How often do we have to go there?”

      “Once a week for fourteen weeks. Saturdays. We can ride together. You’ll really love it, Jen. I promise you.”

      Jen opened a package of ginger snaps and ate one.

      “How’d you get money?”

      “I got a grant,” Lolly said.

      “How much are you getting paid?”

      “Well, my gas is covered,” Lolly said.

      The martyr, as usual, Jen thought.

      “God, you make me feel like such an ogre. I take two grand and you take nothing.”

      “Look, it’s important to me that this program is successful. If it is, there’s a possibility of getting some federal grants to do more programs for a lot more people. And you’re the only one I know who can help me. I can do poetry and journal writing, but I don’t know anything about drama. I need your help, you can teach me, and you need money. Can we do that without a big goddamn fight?”

      Lolly had her arms crossed over her flat chest and her head was tilted in an impatient, questioning manner. Jen studied the stance; it signified so much. Could be useful for some future role.

      Then she realized what she was agreeing to—one of Lolly’s do-gooder projects. Jen didn’t want to do it, but what choice did she have?

      She sighed, “When does it start?”

      “I’m going to meet with the women the first Saturday of June, and we’ll officially get underway June 10,” Lolly said. “Are you in?”

      Jen tried, but couldn’t think of a reason to say no.

      “You’ll have to drive. You know I lost my license,” Jen said.

      “Deal,” Lolly said. Jen held out the bag of ginger snaps, and Lolly took one.

      Friday, May 27

      Sonya lay face down on the cold tile of the bathroom floor in B dorm of the North Florida Correctional Institution for Women with Magna, a strawberry blond titan, astride her back. Magna’s hand, fleshy but powerful, was wrapped around Sonya’s neck.

      “You see this, Gypsy bitch?” Magna asked, waving a pack of Newports in front of her face. “These are mine. I marked this package ‘cause I knew there was a sneaky little thief taking my shit. You better keep your dirty hands to yourself or I’ll break each one of your fingers.” With the hand that was not wrapped around Sonya’s neck, Magna dropped the cigarettes and twisted Sonya’s pinky finger out of its socket.

      Sonya’s eyes bulged. She tried to kick her legs. She’d never been a fighter, but she knew how to take a beating. Then again, no one had ever tried to outright kill her before.

      Mercifully, Magna dropped Sonya’s finger and unwrapped her other hand from around Sonya’s pinched neck. Sonya gasped for air. The big woman pushed herself off Sonya’s back, jabbing her ribs with a swift kick as she did so. Sonya grunted. She heard the bathroom door open and close as Magna walked out with the pack of cigarettes. Sonya rolled on her back and tried to breathe.

      What had she been thinking, stealing from a gorilla like that? It wasn’t like Duke didn’t put money into her account. She got the maximum every month. But stealing was so easy; it came naturally. Magna had left that locker door wide open, distracted by a screaming match between two girls in love with the same stud.

      Sonya struggled to a sitting position. She noticed a small pool of pee on the floor from where she’d wet herself in fright when Magna first stole up on her and knocked her down. She held her finger gingerly. It felt like it was broken. It had swollen up and was red and throbbing. That night in the hotel – the other time she’d gotten a serious beating – she’d gotten a broken nose and two cracked ribs. But she also had access to plenty of pain killers and plastic surgery that made her nose look better than before. She should probably try to stand up, but the pain and the fear had left her feeling dizzy.

      She leaned back and stared at the row of sinks above her, the pipes like chrome arms bent into the wall. She’d been stealing since she was seven years old, letting her hand whip into a cash register while her older sister flirted with the clerk or her uncle pretended to be stealing something from the back of the store or her mother feigned chest pains. In and out, her hand went. Little Flash, they called her. But back then she never got caught.

      A pair of black brogans moved into her eyesight. Shit, she thought, instinctively curling in on herself like a snail, but the hand that reached down and touched her shoulder was gentle.

      “Hey, Sonya, are you okay?” The voice spoke like someone singing. It was Indian. Sonya looked up gratefully. Something about Indian’s presence calmed her. Sonya nodded her head and tried to stand. Indian put her hands under Sonya’s arms and helped her up.

      “Man, this looks bad,” Indian said, taking Sonya’s finger in her hand. Sonya wanted to pull away but something about the way Indian held onto it felt so soothing. Indian began slowly massaging the muscles of the hand, her strong fingers working across the ridges of Sonya’s hand, and then abruptly she popped the finger back into place. Sonya felt a searing lick of pain, but then almost immediate relief. “Try not to move it for a while. It should be all right.”

      Sonya was unable to utter her gratitude. Shame lay like a weight on her tongue.

      The door opened.

      “Alice Jaybird, what is going on in here?” a shrill voice asked. It was that blond officer everyone called C.O. Barbie, sticking her nose as usual where it didn’t belong.

      Indian turned to the woman with a gentle smile. She never lets them get to her, Sonya thought.

      “Sonya must have slipped on the floor. There’s a wet spot right there. I was just helping her up,” Indian said.

      C.O. Barbie looked suspiciously at them.

      “Are you hurt?”

      Sonya shook her head. Her finger throbbed, her ribs ached and her throat felt like it had been set on fire, but she had survived worse than this.

      “All right then, one of you clean up that spill and the other needs to get out of here,” the C.O. said. “I don’t want any funny stuff. If I find out you’re up to anything, I’ll send both of you to the box.”

      She turned on her heel and exited the bathroom.

      “Are you sure you’re okay?” Indian asked.

      “I’m all right,” Sonya finally rasped.

      “Well, try to stay out of trouble,” Indian said, patting her back. “It’s not worth it. Go get yourself cleaned up. I’ll mop this up.”

      Sonya walked back to her bunk and got some clean underwear, a dress and a towel from her dresser. She wouldn’t be allowed to take a shower now, but she could give herself a little birdbath. She wondered how many of these women knew what just happened to her. Were they laughing at her? She hated to be ridiculed more than anything else in the world. It stung like angry wasps. But the Indian, Alice Jaybird, wouldn’t laugh at her. And that was somehow a comfort.

      After she cleaned herself up, Sonya