Chapter 36

By mid-December, Frances Noonan had the Fog Ladies set up for their first visit to the prison. They would teach the incarcerates a skill. That’s how they put it to the warden. It had been far easier than she anticipated to get authorization for their project, partly because the prison was chronically short of funds and always open to educational activities and partly because the warden’s mother had been a quilter.

The prison was three hours away. Enid Carmichael complained the entire way, though she sat up front next to Mrs. Noonan where there was more room. Alma Gordon, Olivia Honeycut, and Harriet Flynn were smooshed into the small back seat, quiet, uncomplaining. The big woman complained about the dust that came in through the window when she put it down and the heat from the sun when she had it closed. She complained about the endless brown view and the smell of the cows. She even complained about the road, with few cars and therefore few people to spy on. “Give me the city any day,” she said.

They made good time on the empty central California roads, and it took them less than three hours, including a stop at a barren rest area for the bathroom and a snack. Mrs. Noonan had an entire quiche packed into a plastic tub, minus one piece, because she’d expected Sarah to dinner the night before. They hadn’t talked about it. Mrs. Noonan just assumed. She enjoyed having Sarah to eat with. Had grown used to her at the kitchen table. But the girl had gone out to dinner with Andy. Of course.

Not just dinner. Ice-skating, too, down at the rink at Union Square. Mrs. Noonan had heard all about it from Sarah that morning. The big open area was set up for the season and Andy suggested they skate, even though he’d never done it. Sarah said she held him up the whole time, and they fell so many times she thought they’d end up in the emergency department. Sarah showed Frances pictures of the gigantic Christmas tree, taller than the Macy’s building, lighted with so many lights you couldn’t see the tree underneath. One of the hotels had a gingerbread house display, and Sarah and Andy enjoyed that as well. Sarah regaled her with endless details of the date, so Frances felt she’d been a witness.

Frances was glad Andy was back. The two were obviously smitten. But Frances also missed Sarah’s company.

The Fog Ladies arrived at the prison, which sat in a vast sea of brown—brown dirt, brown grass. Mrs. Noonan had arranged for three sessions with the inmates, and the Fog Ladies brought all the supplies with them as a donation to the prison. They would break into groups so they could teach as many women as possible. The warden suggested ten inmates to a group, each group getting two hours of instruction and two groups each visit. Sixty inmates total.

The Fog Ladies brought a lot of supplies, though they left the quilting frames home on this first visit and just brought embroidery hoops. They had precut all the squares from a variety of different cloths. They planned on simple patchwork quilts with a one-patch design. They estimated six quilts could eventually be made if each group of ten was able to complete a quilt.

The prison was fairly new but looked worn. They waited in a lobby with magazines without covers, all out of date. The Fog Ladies clustered at the water fountain after their long journey, but it was broken.

Mrs. Noonan had already filled out pages of paperwork, and each of the Fog Ladies had been through a background check, but the first visit started with more paperwork still. They had their photographs taken for identity badges, and they went through a pat-down search.

“We’ve already been through the metal detector,” Harriet Flynn complained.

“And I had to go through without my walker,” Olivia Honeycut added.

“Shh,” said Frances Noonan as the guard approached.

“I hope you don’t expect me to take off my shoes again.” Enid Carmichael peered down from her high heels. The woman guard glared and motioned for the shoes to come off.

Even Alma Gordon, always so cooperative, let out a yelp when the guard did her search.

They then met personally with the warden. Mrs. Noonan stressed the calming effects of quilting, as she had in her application, and that finished products could be auctioned, “especially if, for instance, the quilter had some notoriety.”

“Oh, we don’t have anybody like that,” the warden said. She was a tall woman with her hair pulled severely back in a bun. “This isn’t San Quentin.”

“Well, their families would certainly enjoy the thoughtful present of a well-crafted quilt,” Mrs. Noonan added.

“Any quilts made will be the property of the state,” the warden said.

“Oh, you must have some famous prisoners,” Mrs. Honeycut said.

“We wouldn’t want to capitalize on one in our charge,” said the warden.

“Quilting would be helpful for everybody,” Mrs. Gordon said meekly. “Especially those with problem pasts.”

“We want your worst ones,” said Mrs. Carmichael. “The rapists, the ax murderers.”

“This is a women’s prison. We don’t have any of those,” the warden said. “There aren’t that many true female murderers. Just women trying to get out of abusive relationships the only way left to them. Most of our women are in for nonviolent crimes. You’ll have to settle for ordinary criminals, drugs, forgery. But I’m sure they can benefit from quilting.” The warden showed a hint of a smile for the first time.

“Don’t you have even one murderer?” Mrs. Noonan persisted. If she hadn’t already gotten the go-ahead, she would not be so pushy. How unfortunate to spend all this time and effort and not get to talk with Serena Evans. The thought of driving out here two more times with Enid Carmichael next to her, all for nothing, was downright depressing. How selfish, she told herself. Quilting would benefit the other inmates, too, even if they couldn’t speak to the lady killer.

“Like I said, we have women who killed their husbands or boyfriends, but for the most part, they were trying to protect themselves or their children. Those of us who haven’t been in their shoes cannot judge what we might do in similar circumstances. But there is one woman who did it for money. A million dollars.”

“Oh, my, really?” Frances Noonan tried to hide her excitement.

“Yes, horrible crime.” The warden winced. “Hacked up her husband with a machete.”

“Oh, dear.” Alma Gordon put her hand to her mouth.

“She’s been a model prisoner, though. I did intend for her be part of this, if you have no objection,” the warden said.

“Oh, no, none at all,” said Mrs. Noonan, elated.

“Yes, we’d better include her. Her soul needs cleansing too,” Harriet Flynn piped in. “Quilting can be quite good for the soul.”