Freedom of Love (Letter From Home #2)(3)
“Molly, what on earth are you doing back here?”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Purdue. The box was heavier than I assumed.”
She pursed her lips as she stood with her hands on her hips, staring at me. Her eyes darted over to Greta, now busy shelving books to the side. “If the boxes are too heavy then just ask Greta to help you. Books are valuable, you know.” With those parting words, she whirled and walked back to the front.
I watched her walk away and had the thought that if anyone ever fit the stereotype of a librarian, it was her. Tall, thin, with the half-glasses that allowed her to peer at you over the top of the lenses. She always wore a sweater, claiming the room was freezing. Her slightly frizzy hair was pulled up into a bun on top of her head. I could just imagine when she died, her saying, “Shhh, be quiet!” as she hurried through the pearly gates in her granny shoes.
The library was a large room with sturdy, wooden shelves on the left side and the librarian’s counter in the middle. The room was well lit and with navy carpet on the floor, it gave off a cheery appearance. From her vantage point perched on a tall chair, Ms. Purdue could observe the entire room. Computer station tables were on the right side, with lounge chairs near the magazines in the front. I worked at the tables near the back where the storeroom door was located.
Quite a few prisoners were completing their GED online and a few were taking college classes, so the computer stations stayed busy. Other than that, I was surprised at the lack of activity but realized not as many people like to read as voraciously as I did. But then since it gave me more privacy, I didn’t complain.
Sighing, I knelt down on the floor to begin working on the boxes of books that had been shipped in. It appeared that the women’s prison was the beneficiary of everyone’s cast-off books—and they sent them here by the box-loads. My job was to go through them and divide them into categories. Those that were too damaged or worn were put in a recycle pile. Those that were not appropriate were placed in another pile. And those that would interest the women in the facility were placed in a third group for the librarian to sort.
I had been at this job for a week and had to admit that I liked it…except for Greta, but even she wasn’t too bad. Just annoying and a huge suck-up to Ms. Purdue.
As long as I could stay busy, I managed to get through the days. But the nights were when the fear came slithering out. Fear for my sister now in foster care. Who’s she with? Are they good to her? Will she blame me for everything that has now happened to her? The long night brought no answers to these questions and so sleep came sporadically.
“Molly! Come on!”
Exhaustion caused me to sleep later than my cellmates, but Ellen’s excited cry had my eyes jerking open. “Wha…what is it?”
“It snowed last night! Come on. As soon as we get finished with breakfast, the guards will let us take a walk.”
Unsure why the snow seemed to spawn such excitement, I hurried nonetheless. The energy in the cafeteria was definitely up and most inmates finished breakfast in record time. Not wanting to be left behind, I shoveled in the eggs and bacon. Jackie and Ellen were on the cafeteria detail during lunch, so with the morning off they pulled me along with them to the courtyard where many inmates were kicking the snow around with their shoes.
The icy crystals landed on my face and the cool freshness felt rejuvenating. Smiling, I leaned my head back, opening my mouth to catch the snowflakes, just like I had as a child. Unable to hide my laughter, I twirled around with my arms out.
The guards circled around the women, keeping an eye on all of us, but did not hinder our snow games. A few lightly-tossed snowballs flew through the air and several women laid on their backs to make snow angels. After thirty minutes, we were escorted back in, rosy cheeks and noses on everyone, but spirits elevated. When freedom is lost, it doesn’t take much to make someone feel happier, even for just a few minutes.
The next day in the library, I was assigned to go through the old newspapers and magazines, so Greta could place the new ones in the racks.
Carrying a stack out in my arms, I placed them on a table near the back so that I might go through them one at a time. Sitting down, I pored over the newspapers, reading the articles. It reminded me of sitting at grandma’s kitchen table on Saturday mornings when she had me read the weekly newspapers to her. A now unfamiliar smile curved my lips slightly at the memory.
Flipping the pages, I read about politics, world news, and who was dating who in Hollywood. As I got to the last paper in the stack a picture caught my attention. It was of a soldier reading a book with the headline stated, Books Needed For Soldiers. I flattened my hands over the slightly wrinkled paper, smoothing it out and read the article. Servicemen and women overseas were in need of new or gently used books and magazines. I finished reading and leaned back in my chair, my mind whirling. Here I am, in a prison and I’m surrounded by books while these soldiers are in a war, fighting for freedom, and have a hard time getting books to read. Shame washed over me, but the seed of an idea was born.
Susan’s smile matched mine as she listened to my community service project. I showed her the article I had cut out of the paper and she took notes as I explained my proposal. It really was very simple—I could take the books we were sending to recycle and box them up for delivery to the closest military base. Considering there was an Army base about fifty miles away, I hoped that would not be an insurmountable problem.