You’re not eating, Tracy, her mother said.
And to please her, Tracy forced herself to eat a few mouthfuls. There was a cake for her, with ten candles on it, and the waiters sang Happy Birthday and the other guests turned and applauded, and Tracy felt like a princess. Outside she could hear the clang of a streetcar bell as it passed.
The clanging of the bell was loud and insistent.
“Suppertime,” Ernestine Littlechap announced.
Tracy opened her eyes. Cell doors were slamming open throughout the cell block. Tracy lay on her bunk, trying desperately to hang on to the past.
“Hey! Chow time,” the young Puerto Rican said.
The thought of food sickened her. “I’m not hungry.”
Paulita, the fat Mexican woman spoke. “Es llano. It’s simple. They don’ care if you’re hungry or not. Everybody gotta go to mess.”
Inmates were lining up in the corridor outside.
“You better move it, or they’ll have your ass,” Ernestine warned.
I can’t move, Tracy thought. I’ll stay here.
Her cell mates left the cell and lined up in a double file. A short, squat matron with peroxided-blond hair saw Tracy lying on her bunk. “You!” she said. “Didn’t you hear the bell? Get out here.”
Tracy said, “I’m not hungry, thank you. I’d like to be excused.”
The matron’s eyes widened in disbelief. She stormed inside the cell and strode over to where Tracy lay. “Who the fuck do you think you are? You waitin’ for room service? Get your ass in that line. I could put you on report for this. If it happens again, you go to the bing. Understand?”
She did not understand. She did not understand anything that was happening to her. She dragged herself from the bunk and walked out into the line of women. She was standing next to the black woman. “Why do I—?”
“Shut up!” Ernestine Littlechap growled out of the corner of her mouth. “No talkin’ in line.”
The women were marched down a narrow, cheerless corridor past two sets of security doors, into an enormous mess hall filled with large wooden tables and chairs. There was a long serving counter with steam tables, where prisoners lined up for their food. The menu of the day consisted of a watery tuna casserole, limp green beans, a pale custard, and a choice of weak coffee or a synthetic fruit drink. Ladles of the unappetizing-looking food were thrown into the tin plates of the prisoners as they moved along the line, and the inmates who were serving behind the counter kept up a steady cry: “Keep the line moving. Next…keep the line moving. Next…”
When Tracy was served, she stood there uncertainly, not sure where to go. She looked around for Ernestine Littlechap, but the black woman had disappeared. Tracy walked over to a table where Lola and Paulita, the fat Mexican woman, were seated. There were twenty women at the table, hungrily wolfing down their food. Tracy looked down at what was on her plate, then pushed it away, as the bile rose and welled in her throat.
Paulita reached over and grabbed the plate from Tracy. “If you ain’t gonna eat that, I’ll take it.”
Lola said, “Hey, you gotta eat, or you won’t last here.”
I don’t want to last, Tracy thought hopelessly. I want to die. How could these women tolerate living like this? How long had they been here? Months? Years? She thought of the fetid cell and her verminous mattress, and she wanted to scream. She clenched her jaw shut so that no sound would come out.
The Mexican woman was saying, “If they catch you not eatin’, you go to the bing.” She saw the uncomprehending look on Tracy’s face. “The hole—solitary. You wouldn’t like it.” She leaned forward. “This is your first time in the joint, huh? Well, I’m gonna give you a tip, querida. Ernestine Littlechap runs this place. Be nice to her an’ you got it made.”
Thirty minutes from the time the women had entered the room, a loud bell sounded and the women stood up. Paulita snatched a lone green bean from a plate next to her. Tracy joined her in the line, and the women began the march back to their cells. Supper was over. It was four o’clock in the afternoon—five long hours to endure before lights out.