Tracy stared at her.
Big Bertha nodded. “I can do it, honey. Believe it.”
Tracy knew then her time was running out. She had to escape before Ernestine was released.
Amy’s favorite walk was through the meadow, rainbowed with colorful wildflowers. The huge artificial lake was nearby, surrounded by a low concrete wall with a long drop to the deep water.
“Let’s go swimming,” Amy pleaded. “Please, let’s, Tracy?”
“It’s not for swimming,” Tracy said. “They use the water for irrigation.” The sight of the cold, forbidding-looking lake made her shiver.
Her father was carrying her into the ocean on his shoulders, and when she cried out, her father said, Don’t be a baby, Tracy, and he dropped her into the cold water, and when the water closed over her head she panicked and began to choke…
When the news came, it was a shock, even though Tracy had expected it.
“I’m gettin’ outta here a week from Sattiday,” Ernestine said.
The words sent a cold chill through Tracy. She had not told Ernestine about her conversation with Big Bertha. Ernestine would not be here to help her. Big Bertha probably had enough influence to have Tracy transferred to her cell. The only way Tracy could avoid it would be to talk to the warden, and she knew that if she did that, she was as good as dead. Every convict in the prison would turn on her. You gotta fight, fuck, or hit the fence. Well, she was going to hit the fence.
She and Ernestine went over the escape possibilities again. None of them was satisfactory.
“You ain’t got no car, and you ain’t got no one on the outside to he’p you. You’re gonna get caught, sure as hell, and then you’ll be worse off. You’d be better doin’ cool time and finishin’ out your gig.”
But Tracy knew there would be no cool time. Not with Big Bertha after her. The thought of what the giant bull-dyke had in mind for her made her physically ill.
It was Saturday morning, seven days before Ernestine’s release. Sue Ellen Brannigan had taken Amy into New Orleans for the weekend, and Tracy was at work in the prison kitchen.
“How’s the nursemaid job goin’?” Ernestine asked.
“All right.”
“I seen that little girl. She seems real sweet.”
“She’s okay.” Her tone was indifferent.
“I’ll sure be glad to get outta here. I’ll tell you one thing, I ain’t never comin’ back to this joint. If there’s anythin’ Al or me kin do for you on the outside—”
“Coming through,” a male voice called out.
Tracy turned. A laundryman was pushing a huge cart piled to the top with soiled uniforms and linens. Tracy watched, puzzled, as he headed for the exit.
“What I was sayin’ was if me and Al can do anythin’ for you—you know—send you things or—”
“Ernie, what’s a laundry truck doing here? The prison has its own laundry.”
“Oh, that’s for the guards,” Ernestine laughed. “They used to send their uniforms to the prison laundry, but all the buttons managed to get ripped off, sleeves were torn, obscene notes were sewn inside, shirts were shrunk, and the material got mysteriously slashed. Ain’t that a fuckin’ shame, Miss Scarlett? Now the guards gotta send their stuff to an outside laundry.” Ernestine laughed her Butterfly McQueen imitation.
Tracy was no longer listening. She knew how she was going to escape.
11
“George, I don’t think we should keep Tracy on.”
Warden Brannigan looked up from his newspaper. “What? What’s the problem?”
“I’m not sure, exactly. I have the feeling that Tracy doesn’t like Amy. Maybe she just doesn’t like children.”
“She hasn’t been mean to Amy, has she? Hit her, yelled at her?”
“No…”
“What, then?”
“Yesterday Amy ran over and put her arms around Tracy, and Tracy pushed her away. It bothered me because Amy’s so crazy about her. To tell you the truth, I might be a little jealous. Could that be it?”
Warden Brannigan laughed. “That could explain a lot, Sue Ellen. I think Tracy Whitney is just right for the job. Now, if she gives you any real problems, let me know, and I’ll do something about it.”