Insiders by Olivia Goldsmith

wasn’t even a dormitory – and it most certainly was not a country club. It was a prison cell, plain and simple. The concrete walls were painted a color that a decorator might claim to be Dusty Rose, but to Jennifer’s eyes it was a hideous Battleship Pink. The beds – four of them – were bunked and bolted against the sidewalls with only about ten square feet of floor space in between. There was no furniture except a tiny desk that was suspended from the wall, and, beneath it, a single chair. Jennifer wondered if she would have three cellmates, and if the four of them were supposed to share that chair.
    The only other place to sit was on a toilet that was quite unlike anything Jennifer had ever seen before in her life. At first glance, the stainless steel creation reminded her of a metal miniature of the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum. On closer inspection she saw the faucets and realized with horror that it was a monument to prison efficiency. It served as both wash basin and commode, with the seat only inches from the lower bunks. She remembered a snippet of a song parody her mother used to sing: And my bunk is where the skunk is. Did someone actually sleep with her head virtually in the head ? She set her shoulders and tried not to show her dismay. After all, she only had to sit there until Tom came and took her away. She wouldn’t be spending the night.
    â€˜Home sweet home,’ Camry said as he rolled open the door in the fourth wall, which consisted completely of bars. The section slid open, and for a moment it doubled the bars on the left side of the cell. The shadow play they made passing reminded Jennifer of the sun through the windows of New York’s elevated trains. But there was no sunshine here. The cells were on a windowless hall, and although each one did have a window, it was so high in the wall that even from the top bunk you couldn’t peer through the chicken wire. Camry took Jennifer’s elbow and firmly guided her into her new home.
    â€˜It’s only for a few hours,’ she told herself. Maybe now she could finally call Tom. She looked for a moment at Officer Camry, but decided not to ask.
    â€˜Get comfortable,’ Camry instructed. ‘I’ll go get your cellmate so you two can get acquainted.’
    â€˜Right,’ Jennifer said.
    â€˜Pardon?’ Camry responded.
    â€˜I wish,’ Jennifer said with a cynical sigh.
    Only one of the four bunks was made up, and over it, taped to the walls, were six pictures. One was of a baby – obviously a snapshot – but the other five were clipped from magazines. There was an angel, a toddler on the beach building a sand castle, a fire engine, the Nike logo complete with Just Do It , and finally a picture of Jesus, looking a lot like Donny Osmond. Jennifer stood there for a moment, trying to imagine what kind of brain had arranged those particular images in that particular way.
    She walked over to the desk. It was bare except for three books: the Bible, a copy of The Pokey Little Puppy , and a paperback Baby-Sitters Club book. Jennifer had read the Baby-Sitters Club when she was in fourth grade. Had they put her in a cell with a child or a simpleton?
    On the lower bunk on the opposite wall, Jennifer found a rolled up mattress and a set of sheets. Hers, she wondered? She thought about making the bed, but was enraged at the thought of actually making herself ‘comfortable’ as dopey old Roger had suggested. This was no place to be comfortable. She would never sleep here, and she would most certainly never use the toilet. Anyone – even someone like Byrd – could look right through the bars and see everything that went on.
    Jennifer sat on the solitary chair and wondered what time it was. Would Tom still be at home, on his way to the office, or was he already there? She knew his cell phone number by heart, but she wasn’t sure if a cell phone couldaccept a collect call. She stood up