We pulled into the prison parking lot, both of us tired. It had taken us almost five hours to get here, and we climbed stiffly out of the Plymouth and stretched our legs. I stared at the ugly gray buildings, spotted the gun towers and razor-wired fencing, and shivered.
“Honey, leave your coat and personal items,” Doc said, hunched over from the ride, taking off his coat slowly and laying it across the front bench seat.
Leaving on my gloves, I folded my coat over his and put my satchel on the floorboard, while he grabbed his medical bag. “Can we bring her food?”
He wagged his head, solemn.
“I have a newspaper in my bag.”
Again, he shook his head.
Standing at the front gate, we waited as a guard checked us in. Doc showed the official his license, and he inspected the doctor’s bag. Then he had me sign my name and who I was visiting. I carefully wrote it down in the visitor slot—the date, March 28, 1953, and my mama’s name under the prisoner box—and handed the pencil to Doc.
We walked down the narrow sidewalk to a building that had a sign above the door that read Administration. Doc opened the wooden door and motioned for me to go in. A blast of dampness and disinfectant and other putrid smells hit me in the face as I stepped into the small foyer. In front of me there was another massive barred door with another guard behind it.
A brown door leading somewhere else was on the left side of the room.
The guard sauntered up to the bars and said, “What are you here for?”
Doc pushed past me and said, “I’m here to see my patient, Cussy Mary Lovett, who is in the infirmary. This is her daughter, Honey Lovett.”
I nodded, excited to see Mama.
The guard went over to the wall and picked up the telephone receiver. “Have the nurse’s aide bring down Lovett.”
He hung up and unhooked a big brass key from his belt and unlocked the door. “Come on through the crash gate. Empty your pockets, place your bags and personal items on the table,” he said in a bored tone. We stepped inside the small area, and the guard locked the big gate behind us. I stared at the other crash gate in front of us, feeling trapped, penned in.
Doc set his bag on the scarred wooden table and dug out loose change, wallet, and keys. The guard inspected it all and pushed it back toward him.
“Take off your gloves, miss.”
Reluctantly, I slipped them off and placed them on the table and stepped back. But the guard didn’t pick them up. Instead, he gawped bug-eyed at my staining, dark-blue hands.
Doc cleared his throat, and the guard turned his attention to inspecting my gloves, sneaking glimpses at my hands.
“Uh, I need to get my captain’s approval, Doctor.” He snuck another glimpse at me, went over to the wall, and picked up the telephone. The guard cupped a hand over the mouthpiece. Hisses, whispers skittered, rising up concrete walls, escaping out the ol’ dark metal bars into darkened hallways and tiny darker rooms.
“Blue.”
“Infirmary.”
“Lovett.”
“Doctor.” I heard the words escape, each deepening the color of my flesh.
“Hand to God, Cap’n. No, sir, the prisoner’s not in the blue room, no, sir. Yes. Ya need to get out here, sir.” He peeked over his shoulder at us.
I stared at the guard, bewildered, a panic seizing hold of my chest.
Doc must’ve seen my puzzlement because he leaned over and whispered, “I’ve heard from colleagues the blue room is where the guards whip ’em, bruises ’em blue. But she’s in a safer place.”
Staring up at the big clock on the wall, I watched the minute hand circle slowly, sweeping its last tick into a new hour. From beyond the gate down the darkened hall, I heard squeaking, the sounds of metal clacking, growing closer.