filled the narrow door, creating a solid shape behind its metal bars. She was as tall as any man, with a figure like a block of cheese—her shoulders, waist, and hips the same intimidating width. Even her profile yielded no disruption to the straight planes of her body. What a relief it must have been for her to take on the job of a prison matron, to wear the formless, gray woolen dress with its long, straight sleeves and sensible belt, sparing herself the false accommodations of corsets and bustles and wide mutton sleeves. For all the children knew, she wore this uniform to church on Sundays and to the theater with Mr. Karistin, if such a man existed.
Dana knew enough of Mrs. Karistin’s routine to close her eyes tight, because the minute she said, “Let me see you,” the room flooded with light as she flipped the switch on the wall outside, followed by the disgruntled sound of waking girls.
“Up and dressed, girls. Ten minutes. Up and dressed.” Mrs. Karistin punctuated this command with a clack of her leather-clad baton over the bars of the door. A gesture she would repeat when there were six minutes left. Then four. Then two, until finally to the back of the head of any girl not dressed, with her hair combed and braided neat, standing squarely at the foot of her crisply made bed. It wasn’t a hard blow to the head, not enough to knock a girl to her knees, or even be felt much by the end of the day. But enough to make her elbow her way to the washbasin and be the first in line to splash her face with stinging cold water, or maybe sleep with her shoes on.
Having awoken in this place for nearly a year, Dana had mastered the routine. She swung her stockinged feet over the side of the bed, where her shoes were waiting to be filled and laced. While the other girls lined up at the washbasins, she got out of bed, pulling her blanket up with her and smoothing it in long, sure strokes. Her dress lay at its foot, spread out like something a little girl would fold over the form of a paper doll. It was a trick she’d learned from an older girl during her first weeks here. It not only kept the dress from wrinkling, but it also provided an extra layer of warmth during the winter nights.
She could use that warmth right now, as she shivered in her thin cotton shift. But then she’d run the danger of getting her sleeves wet while she washed, which would mean red, chapped skin for days after. So, half-dressed, she went to the washbasins, which, by now, were vacated by the younger girls, and pumped fresh water into the waiting bowl. She’d learned it was coldest rightfrom the spigot, so she let it sit while she removed her nightcap and ran a damp hand over the hair she’d carefully brushed and braided the night before.
“You look like a granny with that thing.” The new girl—Carrie, she remembered—stood behind Dana, hugging her arms around her own thin frame. Her skin was dark, close to the color of the gingerbread cake Mama used to make at Christmastime. Two small bruises, suspiciously the size of a man’s thumbprints, were making their last stand just below the girl’s bony clavicles.
“It keeps your hair nice.” Dana tried not to look at the matted nest that created a dark cloud around the girl’s sharp face. “So you don’t have to take time to brush it in the morning. And then, when it’s warmer and there’s bugs in the bed, it keeps them out.”
Carrie swiped her arm—wrist to elbow—under her nose and lunged for the vacated spigot next to Dana. “I don’t know about you,” she said, pumping vigorously, “but I for one don’t plan on being here this summer.”
Dana pretended not to hear as she cupped her hands beneath the surface of the icy water and brought her face low to splash it clean. Just what kind of dirt had accumulated there throughout the night she couldn’t imagine, but that was the rule. Face washing, three times a day: in the morning, after the noon meal, and before bed. It was
Dana knew enough of Mrs. Karistin’s routine to close her eyes tight, because the minute she said, “Let me see you,” the room flooded with light as she flipped the switch on the wall outside, followed by the disgruntled sound of waking girls.
“Up and dressed, girls. Ten minutes. Up and dressed.” Mrs. Karistin punctuated this command with a clack of her leather-clad baton over the bars of the door. A gesture she would repeat when there were six minutes left. Then four. Then two, until finally to the back of the head of any girl not dressed, with her hair combed and braided neat, standing squarely at the foot of her crisply made bed. It wasn’t a hard blow to the head, not enough to knock a girl to her knees, or even be felt much by the end of the day. But enough to make her elbow her way to the washbasin and be the first in line to splash her face with stinging cold water, or maybe sleep with her shoes on.
Having awoken in this place for nearly a year, Dana had mastered the routine. She swung her stockinged feet over the side of the bed, where her shoes were waiting to be filled and laced. While the other girls lined up at the washbasins, she got out of bed, pulling her blanket up with her and smoothing it in long, sure strokes. Her dress lay at its foot, spread out like something a little girl would fold over the form of a paper doll. It was a trick she’d learned from an older girl during her first weeks here. It not only kept the dress from wrinkling, but it also provided an extra layer of warmth during the winter nights.
She could use that warmth right now, as she shivered in her thin cotton shift. But then she’d run the danger of getting her sleeves wet while she washed, which would mean red, chapped skin for days after. So, half-dressed, she went to the washbasins, which, by now, were vacated by the younger girls, and pumped fresh water into the waiting bowl. She’d learned it was coldest rightfrom the spigot, so she let it sit while she removed her nightcap and ran a damp hand over the hair she’d carefully brushed and braided the night before.
“You look like a granny with that thing.” The new girl—Carrie, she remembered—stood behind Dana, hugging her arms around her own thin frame. Her skin was dark, close to the color of the gingerbread cake Mama used to make at Christmastime. Two small bruises, suspiciously the size of a man’s thumbprints, were making their last stand just below the girl’s bony clavicles.
“It keeps your hair nice.” Dana tried not to look at the matted nest that created a dark cloud around the girl’s sharp face. “So you don’t have to take time to brush it in the morning. And then, when it’s warmer and there’s bugs in the bed, it keeps them out.”
Carrie swiped her arm—wrist to elbow—under her nose and lunged for the vacated spigot next to Dana. “I don’t know about you,” she said, pumping vigorously, “but I for one don’t plan on being here this summer.”
Dana pretended not to hear as she cupped her hands beneath the surface of the icy water and brought her face low to splash it clean. Just what kind of dirt had accumulated there throughout the night she couldn’t imagine, but that was the rule. Face washing, three times a day: in the morning, after the noon meal, and before bed. It was
Similar Books
