Chapter 37

Serena Evans was in Frances Noonan and Harriet Flynn’s second group of quilters. Mrs. Noonan saw to that. For all they knew, though, they might have already met some murderers in the first group. It was impossible to tell. All the women looked the same in their jumpsuits, with similar hair, either long and flat or short and flat. And they all had the same demeanors, polite, downcast. They didn’t wear signs around their necks announcing their crimes.

A scuffle broke out over needles in the first group. Mrs. Noonan thought that might be the end of the quilting. Two women wanted the red corduroy patch and one woman, a surprisingly small and gentle looking woman named Maya, intentionally pricked the other woman in the arm. At least that’s how it looked to Mrs. Noonan. And to the injured woman, a stout middle-aged woman who cussed nonstop throughout the session. Before Frances Noonan could explain that she had plenty more red corduroy patches, the cussing woman elbowed Maya in the side, and Maya jabbed again with her needle but missed. Mrs. Flynn stood with her eyes squeezed shut, but Mrs. Noonan stepped between the two.

“Here’s another piece of red.” She guided Maya to the other side of the table. “We can’t have two red patches next to each other, that won’t look right. Let’s have you sit over here.”

A guard leaned against the wall. Enid Carmichael and Alma Gordon’s group was between him and Mrs. Noonan’s table, and he didn’t budge. Several cameras fixed on them from the ceiling, but no one ever said anything to Mrs. Noonan, so she assumed this sort of thing must happen from time to time.

Frances Noonan watched the other table. Enid Carmichael towered over tiny Alma Gordon. When they divided into their groups, Alma had naturally moved next to Frances, but Frances asked her to work with Enid.

“Just in case she says something untoward, you can step in and smooth things over,” Mrs. Noonan said. It was a smart idea, but Mrs. Noonan wasn’t fooling herself that this was the real reason. Alma Gordon’s stricken face told her Alma did not believe the fib either.

At the end of the first session, a needle was missing from Olivia Honeycut’s group. It was found quickly on the floor, and the next group started right on time. The warden had been very strict with Mrs. Noonan. All the needles must be counted ahead and accounted for after.

The husband killer stood out immediately. Serena Evans was a beauty, even with her unwashed, no-style hair and lack of makeup. She was dark and tall and had marvelous posture, unlike most of the women in the room. Including us Fog Ladies, thought Mrs. Noonan, straightening her back.

Serena had some experience with quilting as a girl, she said, and she helped the women on either side with their stitch. Mrs. Noonan moved to her side, using her sewn pieces as an example for the group of the correct amount of seam allowance. Once she stood next to her, Mrs. Noonan pounced on Serena’s sewing experience as an excuse to start a conversation.

“How did you learn such an even running stitch?”

“I made a quilt each summer with my cousins and granny.” Serena concentrated on her cloth pieces.

“Oh, how lovely. Is your grandmother still alive, dear?” Mrs. Noonan continued.

“No, she died while I was in college.”

“Oh, I am sorry. Where did you go to college?”

“Northwestern. Close to home. I’m one of their more infamous graduates. They don’t talk about me on the prospective student tours.” Serena forcefully bit off her thread with her teeth.

“Oh. Well.” Mrs. Noonan paused, then plunged right in. “You’re from the Midwest. What are you doing out here?”

Mrs. Noonan learned Serena’s whole story, from her marriage to a man who was domineering but seductive, to the birth of their twins, and on to his death, in which Serena was straightforward about having had no part. She wasn’t adamant, she didn’t go into explanations of why, she just stated it as a matter of fact. After starting her sentence in a prison in Illinois, she was able to transfer to California, where she saw her daughters every weekend.

“You should see them. They can swim. They take piano lessons.” Serena’s face opened, glowing with pride. She lowered her voice. “Most of the women have children, but they can’t see them nearly as often as I see my girls.”

“Oh?” Mrs. Noonan said.

“This prison isn’t exactly centrally located,” Serena answered. “These women are from the cities, San Francisco, Los Angeles, San Jose. We’re hours from there. And most families can’t afford to come that often. I’m lucky, my brother lives pretty close, and he brings my babies every week. He’s been great. With the insurance money, he was able to cut way back on work. He’s like a dad to them. The three of them are the only thing that keeps me going.”

Serena squeezed her eyes shut, but Mrs. Noonan could see the tears. She put her hand out and held her arm. The woman on Serena’s other side, a large woman with curly black hair, rolled her eyes. “I ain’t seen mine in a year,” she said. “And I’m still going. We all gotta get by.”