Marydale had not ventured into the yard since her arrival at Holten Penitentiary. Upon hearing of Neiben’s confession, she feigned a flu and stayed in her cell, watching the women file past her on their way to meals, watching for the quick flip of Gulu’s wrist lest she toss a shiv or some other contraband into Marydale’s cell. It had been days since she had eaten a proper meal, but it didn’t matter. Her cellmate, Kelso, had not asked any questions and had not offered any confidences, but she had begun sneaking bits of bread in to Marydale, and the woman named Leena had supplied her with packs of ramen, which she ate dry and washed down with tap water.
Then one morning as Kelso left the cell, the guard grabbed the bars before they could swing closed.
“Get up, Rae,” the man said. “Infirmary’s seen you. They say you’re fine.”
“Please.” Marydale spoke without moving. “I’m sick.”
“Lots of people are sick. Come on.”
Slowly Marydale lowered herself to the floor. She wished it was the silver-haired guard. She didn’t know the man who stood in front of her, his uniform barely disguising his youth.
“Sir,” she said very quietly. “I’ve got a hearing coming up. It’s important. I’m scared.”
“It’s prison. Everyone’s scared.”
“Please. I’ll do my work crew. I just don’t want to go out there.” She knew better than to mention Gulu’s name.
“Get on,” the man said, turning his eyes away from her.
Reluctantly Marydale moved toward the door. “Do I have to go in the yard?”
The man latched the bars behind her. “Mr. Holten’s orders,” he said, his voice taking on a fierceness it had not had before.
Outside, it was still winter. The brown grass was tipped with white, and the air smelled of frost. Marydale gazed up at the low clouds. Clouds are God’s parade floats, her mother had often said, but these were not the solid, whipped-cream clouds that looked like castles. These clouds were like paint wiped over graffiti, flat and gray. Marydale walked to the outer edge of the yard, where she could lace her fingers through the links of the fence.
Kristen thought they had a case. Of course, nothing is ever certain, she had said, but she had leaned forward across the table until the knuckles of their folded hands touched, the first contact since their stolen kiss. I’ve got Eric’s testimony in writing, and he’s agreed to come to the court.
Marydale took a deep breath. She stared across the brown landscape, a few ribs of snow still visible on the distant hills. In Portland, the Tristess would be bobbing against the pier. The distillery would be filled with the damp peat smell of the fermenting tanks. Portland would be thinking about summer: the Rose Parade, the Big Float, the Naked Bike Race, and a hundred tastes of this neighborhood or that neighborhood, all waiting for a sample of Solstice Vanilla to sweeten the twilight.
“Well, well, well. Who came out of hibernation?” a voice said behind her.
Marydale turned.
Gulu had arrived with an entourage. Four women stood with their arms swinging too casually.
“I heard your fancy girlfriend was ’round.” Gulu tucked her hands into the elastic of her sweatpants. “You still think she’s going to get you out?”
Marydale scanned the prison deck for the silver-haired guard, but besides the guards in the towers—invisible and armed—the only guard on the yard was a man with a shaved head and tiny, close-set eyes. She’d heard him talking about her behind her back. I can see why the dykes are out to get her. She’d wanted to spit back, I am a dyke, but she had to walk past him feeling his gaze crawling across her ass.
“Is it true, Scholar? You leaving us?” Gulu asked.
“You told me nobody gets out,” Marydale said. “You said we have a caul on us.”
“You haven’t been eating.”
“I’m just doing my time.”
“See, I don’t think you are.” Gulu took a step closer, her voice quiet and her posture loose. “How would that posh Jane of yours like you with a little cocaine up your pussy, or do you city girls do that already?”
Marydale stepped back, but there was only the fence behind her.
Near the prison building, two women were urging the guard over to the exercise equipment, where another woman lay on the ground, holding her leg.
“Really, Gulu?” Marydale said.
Marydale folded her arms and tipped her chin up. As soon as Gulu threw the first punch, the other women would jump in. It was solidarity and it was cover. To the guards it would look like six women breaking up a fight, but when they stepped away, there’d be no one in the middle. She ran her tongue along the bridge that held her fake tooth in place. At the time, she had barely felt it break off. Who hit you, Rae? the guard had asked. I bit my tongue. Later, in the bathroom, Gulu had held her for a minute, before shoving her away with a quick benediction. You’re tough, Scholar, and you know not to talk. I like that.
“I looked up to you,” Marydale said.
Gulu snorted. “You should.”
“And now Ronald fucking Holten. What’s he paying you?”
“Who said Ronald Holten is paying me anything? I like you, Scholar. I don’t want you to leave.”
“Did Holten promise you something if you stuck it to me? Some money on your commissary? A radio?” She looked down at Gulu’s sneakers. They were black with white laces like the prison-issue, but there was a little rubber logo stamped on the side. “What are they? Converse? Sketchers? Does it matter? You’d sell me out to Ronald Holten for a pair of sneakers. You’re such a badass.”
She knew how the first blow would feel. There was a time when she was used to discomfort. Ranching hurt. Prison hurt. Now her body felt like a soft creature that had tiptoed out of its shell. The prison soap stung her skin. Her back ached from the thin mattress. But if she won her case, it wouldn’t matter. If she didn’t win, what Gulu did to her would matter even less.
“He probably got them donated by some charity, grabbed them on his way in, and you think you’re the big man.” Marydale went on. “Do you know how fucked that is? You think you’re so tough.” She didn’t want to fight Gulu, but if she couldn’t hide from her, it was the only option left. “You can break every rule. Right? You’re the one who can get away with anything, but you’re going to suck Ronald Holten’s dick for a pair of sneakers. And this is what your life has come down to. You think it feels big. You got your vendettas. You think there’s something between us. You think this”—she spread her arms wide, inviting the blow—”is something we do.”
She remembered Aldean saying, You and Kristen Brock. It’s epic. It felt epic, as though she and Kristen were part of all the love stories Marydale had read in the grimy volumes in the Holten Penitentiary library. Romeo and Juliet. Tristan and Isolde. Stephen Gordon and Mary Llewellyn. Only maybe, just maybe, there would be a happy ending this time.
“We have nothing, Gulu. I was a kid who got caught up in the system. I was seventeen. I thought you cared about me. I was scared of you.”
“You’d better be scared of me.”
Gulu balled a fist and rubbed it against her palm and stepped forward. The women behind her didn’t move.
“You know what you are outside these walls?” Marydale spoke into Gulu’s hot breath. “This is just an ant farm, just a couple little ants running around in a handful of sand. And you think you’re something? You were a player back in the day? You weren’t even a dyke on the outside. You weren’t strong enough to be a dyke. You were just a dumb girl who got caught up with a bad man and did his work for him and now you’re doing his time.”
“You don’t know anything about my time.”
“They have programs at this prison. You could be learning something. You could be reading or getting a degree or making this place better for some of the girls.”
“Making macramé bracelets with the bugs.” Gulu sneered.
“It’d be better than whatever you’re doing here.”
Gulu’s fist shot out, but Marydale dodged faster. Gulu hit the fence. Marydale watched her and watched the women behind her. Their heads were cocked. One woman examined a tear on her cuff. Another leaned to her neighbor and said something Marydale could not hear. They weren’t going to fight. As if watching their reflection in Marydale’s eyes, Gulu stepped back, and Marydale realized she was winning.
“You little…” Gulu began.
A guard’s voice called out over the frozen grass. “Rae! Clarocci! Get over here.”
Marydale moved away from Gulu quickly, keeping her distance as they marched to the deck.
A guard approached, his baton in hand, ready to swing.
“Clarocci, that’s a shot.”
“Sir!” Gulu protested.
The guard turned to Marydale. “Rae, your hearing got moved up. Court transfer will be here in thirty. Transport manager will have your clothing for court.”
Marydale froze.
“Well, go!” the guard said. “You have a pass, Rae.”
“You’ll be back,” Gulu whispered. Then, when Marydale was almost to the door, she called out, “Goodbye, Scholar.”