“It was amazing to watch your handwriting improve over the years, Cody. At first you printed like a child.”
“I was a child.”
“But before long you were switching to cursive.”
“You asked me to, remember? Or I should say that you strongly suggested that I learn cursive and write like an adult.”
“I did. And I sent you a book on penmanship.”
Cody tosses the letter on the bunk, studies a wall of books for a second, then removes one from the shelf. “Here it is—Abbott’s Art of Cursive Penmanship. I spent hours with this book, Miss Iris. You sent me some money and I bought paper and pencils and practiced for hours and hours.”
Cody puts the book back and pulls out another one. He shows it to her and says, “And here’s the first dictionary, Miss Iris. Random House Webster’s College Dictionary. Paperback, of course, so we can’t be murdering one another with dictionaries. I’ve read the whole thing, Miss Iris, cover to cover, and more than once.”
“I know, I know. If you’ll recall, I’ve had to caution you about using big words. At times, you like to show off.”
Cody laughs and tosses the dictionary on the bunk. “Of course I’m showing off, but there’s no one else in the audience. What was the word that really ticked you off?”
“There have been so many, but ‘obstreperous’ comes to mind.”
“That’s it. Love that word. Noisy or unruly. There were other adjectives that you cautioned me about. Obsequious, lugubrious, pernicious, ubiquitous.”
“That’s enough. My point was that big words do not always convey big emotions, and a fancy vocabulary can get in the way of good writing.”
“I fell in love with words, the bigger the better.” Cody stares at the walls of books.
Miss Iris says, “You know, Cody, this place gives me the creeps, but all those books do add a bit of color to your little room.”
“These books saved my life, until now. You sent every one of them, Miss Iris, and you have no idea what they mean to me.”
“What was the first one?”
Cody smiles, points, then removes a paperback. “Mustang Man, by Louis L’Amour,” he says proudly as he opens the book. “The first time I read it, or I should say finished it, was June the tenth, 1978. It took me two months, Miss Iris, because I didn’t know so many of the words. When I saw a word I didn’t know, I would stop and write it down, then get the dictionary and look it up. When I finished a paragraph and knew every word, then I would stand up and pace back and forth and read it all the way through. It took forever, hours and hours, but I loved every minute of it. I loved the words, loved learning them, the long ones, the short ones. I kept a list of words I knew but wasn’t sure how to pronounce, so I would save it for Jack or the chaplain, or maybe even Marvin. I practiced and practiced until I knew all of them, Miss Iris. The entire dictionary.”
“I know, I know. I had to use a dictionary just to read some of your letters.”
“I loved the words, but I craved the stories. They took me away from here, took me all over the world, in this century, last century, the next century. They set my imagination on fire and I realized I was not going crazy, like everybody else around here.”
He puts the book back in its place, then turns slowly and admires his collection. “And you kept sending them, Miss Iris. Every week another book, sometimes two or three, and I read them all. Read them over and over. I usually read ten to twelve hours a day, and all because of you.”
“Who’s your favorite writer?”
Cody laughs at the question and shakes his head. “Too many favorites, I guess. But if I had to name one it would be Louis L’Amour.” He points at the shelf and continues, “I’ve read forty-one of his books. I love Mickey Spillane, Ed McBain, Elmore Leonard, Raymond Chandler, John D. MacDonald.”
“You always said you loved mysteries and crime.”
“Hey, I’m a criminal. Got papers to prove it.”
“You’re not a criminal.”
“Oh really? Then why am I in here?”
“That’s a very good question, Cody. I wish someone could give me a good answer.”
Cody stares at the books, mesmerized. He finally asks, “Where did you get all these books, Miss Iris?”
“Oh, I’m sure I’ve told you before in a letter.”
“Well humor me, dammit. I’m running out of time.”
“Don’t swear.”