“The bucket under the stairs serves as a toilet,” he says, bringingme out of the vision. “And that table over there is what most people sleep on.”
He removes the cuffs from my wrists. The metal loops haverubbed my skin raw, and I wince and blot the sores against my sleeves. Oh,blast. They sting something awful.
“Doctor Faust hasn’t used this place in months, but the femalewards are all full. You’ll be stuck here for a while, I’m afraid. Take it fromme, the conditions up there aren’t much better.”
The guard kneels and frees my feet from the irons. “I know howRoy is. He deserves what you did to him.”
I hold my painful jaw and nod. His kind words weaken my resolveto be strong. I am so weary of fighting tears and grief, but I keep noddinglike a fool, hoping to regain control.
“We’re not all like that.” He turns for the stairs reluctantlyand pauses on the bottom step. “Leave the table by the south wall. It gets theheat from the ovens in the kitchen, and the stones are toasty.”
Don’t go. Please don’t leave me here. Removing my hand from myjaw, I point to him, hoping to learn his name.
“It’s Davis.”
Thank you, I sign.
This gesture means nothing to the guard. He climbs the stairs andsteps out of the Pit. The iron cover is slid back with a hard thud. It is anintimidating sound, and I panic, rushing up the stairs. I pound on the lid butno one answers or even yells at me to stop. Exhausted and sore, I fall asleep,slumped over the top two steps.
My bladder brings me fully awake, and I climb down into the Pitto search for the bucket. It smells as though it hasn’t been emptied in months,and I’m suddenly grateful it’s December instead of July, when the odor would beworse with the warmer weather. Yet the bucket’s acrid scent competes with theoverriding essence of mildew, and the air feels dank, like the old cellar athome that I was afraid to enter as a child.
After relieving myself, I investigate my new surroundings,using my hands and feet to gather information. The floor is liberally coveredwith straw, and former tenants have left other debris—small, hollow bones, apile of corncobs, a torn shoe, and filthy-smelling blankets.
The wooden table feels rough, but I scramble on top and sitcross-legged. Something must be done about my broken finger. It inhibits themovement of my entire hand. What would Kelly recommend? The doctor had the sameinjury after fighting with Tom, and he tore off a piece of his shirt and wrappedhis hand with it. I rip some lace from my drawers, and push my aching fingerstraight, using the lace to tie it to the next healthy digit.
Terribly painful, but I hope it works.
Leaning back against the warm stone, I sigh and enjoy the heatfor a moment, until I feel something strange in the area of my shoulder blade.I turn and reach out with my good hand, touching the wall. Letters? Carved inthe stone? I slowly trace them, the curves and the straight lines. Thank youagain, Kelly—for insisting I learn the alphabet.
I get down from the table and touch other parts of the wall. Carvedwords are everywhere. The writing varies in style but the overall theme is thesame. The Pit is steeped in wretchedness, past atrocities screaming from itsvery stones.
What will I carve during my time here?
I wander about the cell, left hand pressing against the luckystones in my pocket. The space is round, no more than fifty feet in diameter,and I continue to walk until I weave and sway with exhaustion. How many timesdid I circle it? A hundred? Two hundred? Then I climb the stairs to the irondoor in the ceiling and touch the metal. A brittle substance breaks off in myhand. Rust, probably. I wipe my fingers on my skirt and take the stairs back tothe cell floor. Up and down them I go. My legs burn with fatigue, and my bellyaches. I will go mad if I remain in the Pit much longer.
Recognizing my own desperation, I force the panic aside. Stopthinking that way, Hester. Get warm. Go back to the table.
Atop the table once more—pressed against the heated stones—I reclineon my less-bruised side and tune out the anguish of the others in the asylum.Their suffering is no longer palpable, clinging to me like a filmy sweat. Isleep for a time, how long I’m unsure, but I awaken feeling weak and tired. Iextend my hearing by slow degrees and find that the cover is being removed fromthe ceiling of the Pit. Someone comes half-way down the stairs, boot heelsqueaking. “Here’s your meal,” a familiar voice says. “Eat up, Your Majesty.”
Titus.
He drops something at the bottom of the stairs, but mercifully,does not stay. Titus leaves the cell and shuts the lid in the ceiling. I coughseveral times, chilled to the bone, and clutch the wool blanket around myshoulders. Influenza must be common at Ironwood, with freezing temperatures,inadequate clothing, and impure air. Many patients probably die because of it. Butwhat can I do to keep warm? Light exercise, sporadically walking around thePit, perhaps. Keeping my body against the heated stones. I have littleknowledge of how to care for myself, but I will have to learn quickly. I cannotafford to get sick.
The straw on the floor is damp, and I slip on it, jarring myalready stiff joints. I stretch for a few moments, but hunger becomes moreimportant than sore limbs. After reaching the stairs, I grope around them untilI find a small pan and a canteen of water. I
