Forty Lashes Less One

sweating under those heavy skirts, a lick-and-a-promise, armpits-and-neck wash wasn’t any good. They had to wash theirselves all over to be clean and healthy.

Maybe he could write it into the regulations: Women convicts must take a full bath every other day. Or maybe every day.

The Mexican girl, Tacha Reyes, appeared from the left, coming from the end of the stove with a big pan of steaming water, and poured it into the washtub. Tacha was still dressed. Fisher could tell by her hair she hadn’t bathed yet. She had to wait on Norma first, looking at Norma now as she felt the water. Tacha had a nice face; she was just a little skinny. Maybe give her more to eat—

Norma was taking off her skirt. Yes, sir, and that was all she had. No underwear on. Bare-ass naked with black stockings that come up over her knees. Norma turned, leaning against the work table to pull the stockings off, and Bob Fisher was looking at the whole show. He watched her lay her stockings on the table. He watched her pull her hair back with both hands and look down at her ninnies as she twisted the hair around so it would stay. He watched her step over to the tub, scratching under one of her arms, and say, “If it’s too hot I’ll put you in it.”

“It should be all right,” Tacha said.

Another voice, not in the room but out behind him, a voice he knew, said, “Guard, what’s the matter? Are you sick?”

Twisting around, Bob Fisher hit the peak of his hat on the chimney edge and was straightening it, his back to the wall, as Mr. Manly came into the space between the buildings.

“It’s me,” Fisher said.

“Oh, I didn’t know who it was.”

“Making the rounds. I generally check all the buildings before I go to bed.”

Mr. Manly nodded. “I thought somebody was sick, the way you were leaning against the wall.”

“No, I feel fine. Hardly ever been sick.”

“It was the way you were standing, like you were throwing up.”

“No, I was just taking a look in here. Dark places you got to check good.” He couldn’t see Mr. Manly’s eyes, but he knew the little son of a bitch was looking right at him, staring at him, or past him, where part of the brick opening might be showing and he could see light coming through. “You ready to go,” Fisher said, “I’ll walk you over to the gate.”

He came out from the wall to close in on Mr. Manly and block his view; but he was too late.

“What’s that hole?” Mr. Manly said.

“A hole?”

“Behind you, I can see something—”

Bob Fisher turned to look at the opening, then at Mr. Manly again. “Keep your voice down.”

“Why? What is it?”

“I wasn’t going to say anything. I mean it’s something I generally check on myself. But,” Fisher said, “if you want to take a look, help yourself.”

Mr. Manly frowned. He felt funny now standing here in the darkness. He said in a hushed tone, “Who’s in there?”

“Go ahead, take a look.”

Through the slit of the opening something moved, somebody in the room. Mr. Manly stepped close to the wall and peered in.

The light glinted momentarily on his glasses as his head came around, his eyes wide open.

“She doesn’t have any clothes on!”

“Shhhh.” Fisher pressed a finger to his heavy mustache. “Look and see what they’re doing.”

“She’s bare-naked, washing herself.”

“We want to be sure that’s all,” Fisher said.

“What?”

“Go on, see what she’s doing.”

Mr. Manly leaned against the wall, showing he was calm and not in any hurry. He peered in again, as though looking around a corner. Gradually his head turned until his full face was pressed against the opening.

What Norma was doing, she was sliding a bar of yellow soap over her belly and down her thighs, moving her legs apart, and coming back up with the soap almost to her breasts before she slid it down again in a slow circular motion. Mr. Manly couldn’t take his eyes off her. He watched the Mexican girl bring a kettle and pour water over Norma’s shoulders, and watched the suds run down between her breasts, Lord Jesus, through the valley and over the fertile plain and to the dark forest. He could feel his heart beating and feel Bob Fisher close behind him. He had to quit looking now; Lord, it was long enough. It was too long. He wanted to clear his throat. She was turning around and he got a glimpse of her behind as he pulled his face from the opening and stepped away.

“Washing herself,” Mr. Manly said. “That’s all I could see she was doing.”

Bob Fisher nodded. “I hoped that was all.” He stooped to pick up the brick and paused with it at the opening. “You want to look at Tacha?”

“I think I’ve seen enough to know what they’re doing,” Mr. Manly answered. He walked out to the open yard and waited there for Fisher to replace the brick and follow him out.

“What I want to know is what you’re doing spying on them.”

“Spying? I was checking, like I told you, to see they’re not doing anything wrong.”

“What do you mean, wrong?”

“Anything that ain’t natural, then. You know what I mean. Two women together without any clothes on—I want to know there ain’t any funny business going on.”

“She was washing herself.”

“Yes, sir,” Fisher said, “that’s all I saw too. The thing is, you never know when they might start.”

Mr. Manly could still see her, the bar of yellow soap moving over her body. “I’ve never heard of anything like that. They’re both women.”

“I’ll agree with you there,” Fisher said, “but in a prison you never know. We got men with no women, and women with no men, and I’ll tell you we got to keep our eyes open if we don’t want any funny business.”

“I’ve heard tell of men,” Mr. Manly said—the sudsy water running down between her breasts—“but women. What do you suppose they do?”

“I hope I never find out,” Fisher said. He meant it, too.

He got Mr. Manly out of there before the women came out and saw them standing in the yard; he walked Mr. Manly over to the main gate and asked him if he had read the report on the escape attempt.

Mr. Manly said yes, and that he thought it showed the guards to be very alert. He wondered, though, wasn’t this Raymond San Carlos the same one the Negro has assaulted in the mess hall? The very same, Fisher said. Then wasn’t it dangerous to put them both in the same cell? Dangerous to who? Fisher asked. To them, they were liable to start fighting again and try and kill each other. They already tried, Fisher said. They were chained to the floor now out of each other’s reach. Mr. Manly asked how long they would leave them like that, and Fisher said until they made up their minds to be good and kind to each other. Mr. Manly said that could be never if there was a grudge between them. Fisher said it didn’t matter to him, it was up to the two boys.

Fisher waited in the lighted area as Mr. Manly passed through the double gates of the sally port and walked off toward the superintendent’s cottage. He was pretty sure Mr. Manly had believed his story, that he was checking on the women to see they didn’t do queer things. He’d also bet a dollar the little Sunday school teacher wouldn’t make him chink the hole up either.

That was dumb, taking all his books over to the office. Mr. Manly sat in the living room of the superintendent’s cottage, in his robe and slippers, and didn’t have a thing to read. His Bible was on the night table in the bedroom. Yes, and he’d made a note to look up what St. Paul said about being in prison, something about all he’d gone through and how one had to have perseverance. He saw Norma Davis rubbing the bar of soap over her body, sliding it up and down. No—what he wished he’d brought were the file records of the two boys in the snake den. He would have to talk to them when they got out. Say to them, look, boys, fighting never solved anything. Now forget your differences and shake hands.

They were different all right, a Negro and an Indian. But they were alike too.