Gospel According to Prissy Read online

  Somehow, telling Sylvia, having actually said out loud the words, I have left my husband, made everything easier. It gave what she had to do definition and texture and color. The morning before, after she was released from the hospital, Lara returned home to collect all of her clothes and personal belongings, cramming everything into the trunk and back seat of her car. Jake wasn’t there. He had left in the predawn to drive to the northern part of the county to check on some equipment problems. As usual when he had to leave the house extra early, he had fixed himself a big breakfast and left the kitchen in a mess. Dirty dishes cluttered the table and sink. An open package of sausage was next to the stove, along with an open carton of eggs. Grease was splattered everywhere. Jake liked fried and fatty foods. It was how he had been brought up. Everything had to be seasoned with lard and cracklings and fat back with tons of salt. Usually the smell of grease made Lara queasy. This morning she ignored it as well as the mess.

  A touch of late frost had come in the night. Everything had a silver sheen except for the protected clump of purple hyacinths growing at the base of a tall pine near the back door and the touch of red on the azaleas that were just starting to bud – a hint of spring to come. She heard the different sounds of birds greeting the new day. She could see her own breath cooled in the morning air and feel droplets of dew on her face. It made her skin feel prickly and alive. Lara was aware of everything. It was like the strength of each of her senses had become stretched and magnified and heightened, and she was playing a game of virtual reality – only this wasn’t a game. It was real. Not knowing where to go and having no one to turn to, Lara drove to a motel just outside of town. It just so happened that Tyree had a part-time job as desk clerk there. He helped her unload her car.

  Tyree acted like it was the most normal thing in the world, even when Lara wanted to know if there was some place she could keep her car where it wouldn’t be seen. Her car was so easily recognized, she knew Jake would have people out looking for her. By keeping away from him, she would be safe. And she would get the time she needed to make her plans. Tyree managed to make space in a garage where the motel lawn maintenance equipment was stored. She would be safe at night. If he came looking for her at the college, she would just have to hope that his fear of the Caldwells finding out would keep him from doing anything crazy.

  That afternoon, just as Lara had feared, Jake came by the college looking for her. Sylvia saw him when he pulled into the parking lot and quickly ran across the hall to warn Lara.

  “He’s here,” was all she said, and she rushed Lara into the small room she had told her about no bigger than a closet. From her hiding place Lara could hear Jake’s voice, at first condescending, almost begging. Then it grew louder. She knew he was angry. Sylvia somehow remained calm through it all and managed to put him off. But Lara knew he would keep coming back.

  Lara told no one except for Sylvia about the nightmare she was living, choosing instead to endure in silence the darkness that had enveloped her life. Sylvia was true to her word. She kept a watchful eye out. The paralyzing fear Lara felt each time she huddled in the photographer’s dark room whenever Jake came looking for her would have driven her insane if it hadn’t been for the distraction of learning a new job. The college gave her something to think about besides herself and the reason for her terror. It put her with other people so she could pretend that everything was normal. It gave her a place to go and a place to be.

  It was the shame that was so difficult to live with. That she had totally and blindly misjudged Jake. And yet there were other times, even though she knew better, that she felt she was responsible for his behavior. That she had failed as a wife, a woman, and as a human being. Or there had to be some flaw in her own character or background that caused his rage to surface. After all, Lara never knew her biological parents. She had been christened Laramie after the city in Wyoming because that was where she had been adopted. Maybe there was something in her past that made her incapable of being an adequate wife or a fit person. But these moments of self-doubt and weakness didn’t last. The grief she felt over the loss of her baby wouldn’t allow it.

  * * *

  Several of the female inmates moved closer in order to hear better. Some of the older women sat in metal folding chairs pulled together in a lop-sided semi circle. The others sat or squatted on the bare, concrete floor. Seven or eight guards stood just inside the door, not to keep order or block any attempt of escape, but to also hear. Except for the three new inmates who had arrived only a few days before, all of the women had heard Prissy “give words” as she called it. Now they made it a part of their daily routine to listen to Prissy each morning right after breakfast. It wasn’t mandatory. And it wasn’t an organized activity. It was something that had just come about naturally over time where the inmates would casually gather in the recreation room to listen to Prissy before starting their daily schedule. Each woman there wanted to see Prissy and hear what she had to say regardless of her own religious background and beliefs. Many had received personal messages on previous occasions, but they came back each morning wanting to hear what else Prissy had to say. They had found that it didn’t matter who received the message; everyone would benefit from it. They had also found that in those brief few moments at the beginning of their day they felt truly blessed. And it gave them the strength to survive.

  Each woman focused her attention on the small little girl who sat on the edge of a table holding her doll in one arm and a tattered Bible in the other. Other than her legs which she swung rhythmically as she spoke, and the colorful barrettes that bounced in her hair whenever she moved her head, Prissy displayed little emotion or outward expression. In her soft-spoken voice, a child’s voice, she simply told the stories that came in her mind – little pictures and images that she wished to interpret for others. Her mother had told her she had the gift of prophecy. Prissy didn’t know what that meant. All she knew was that whenever she saw someone, a picture or image formed in her mind. Sometimes she heard a voice telling her things about the picture. It was from what she saw and heard that she was able to give her words.

  “I saw a room with lots of books in it,” she said to one of the women. “You were reading the books. Santa has given you the knowledge so you can help other people learn.” The woman nodded her head and smiled. She understood Prissy’s meaning. And even though no one else did, everyone felt encouraged.

  To another woman she said, “I saw you making things from mud. The things you make, the Easter bunny will give to others.” The woman pulled her hair away from her face as she thought back to the art career she had thrown away when she got mixed up with the wrong crowd. She could still sculpt and maybe use her talent to benefit others in some way.

  “You mustn’t feel sad,” she told an older woman who was sitting off to one side. “May the pilgrim of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the pilgrim.”

  Smiling, the woman bowed her head.

  The session only lasted about ten minutes. But Prissy would be back the next morning with new words to give – as well as love. Most of all, love.

  “All right, now, little one.” Roylene lifted Prissy along with her doll and Bible off the table and set her down. “It’s time for you to do your lessons. Tell everyone good-bye.”

  Prissy giggled. “Bye, everyone,” she said. “Santa loves you.” Her eyes lingered for just a moment on one of the new inmates. Like the other new inmates, Lynda had heard about this strange little girl and had come to watch out of curiosity. Now after seeing it, she still didn’t believe. She wasn’t impressed either. It was just some sort of trick – a cheap show. The kid was bright, no doubt, but nothing more than that. Hell, if she was so gifted, she ought to be telling the inmates how to get out of Braden.

  “Come on, Lynda.” The guard motioned to the woman warily. This one couldn’t be trusted. “It’s time to go back now.”

  Smirking, Lynda stood up and
followed the other women wearing dark gray jumpsuits down the hall and back to their cells.

  * * *

  Lynda Croom had spent the past six years in three different prisons before getting transferred to Braden, through no fault of her own. Naturally attractive with silky blond hair, piercing green eyes, and a healthy body that didn’t yet show the ravages of old age and junk food, she was “a magnet for trouble,” her mother told her the day she turned sixteen. She was living with her mother and stepfather at the time in Hound Ears, North Carolina, an upscale skiing area near Boone in the Appalachian Mountains. Her stepfather, Ted Croom, owned a small restaurant – sandwiches, salads and desserts mostly – and some riding stables along with several horses which he rented out by the hour to tourists who wanted to take in the beauty of the mountains on the back of a horse. He called his restaurant and stables Croom’s, and in the ten years he had been in business, he had managed to make a fairly decent living. Lynda loved the horses and taking care of them. She didn’t love her stepfather.

  Carolyn, Lynda’s mother, had been hired to work in the restaurant as a cook. Recently widowed with no formal education or means of support for herself and one child, she eagerly worked at the job, commuting back and forth on the Blue Ridge Parkway from Shulls Mill twenty miles away, thankful to be earning a living. Eight months after she went to work at Croom’s, she married Ted. Lynda was twelve at the time.

  Lynda and her mother moved everything they owned, which didn’t amount to much, into Ted’s log house he had built on top of Hound Ears near the stables. The house was big – but not big enough. Within a short time, Lynda started to feel uncomfortable whenever her stepfather was around. She didn’t like the way he seemed to always be hovering about, watching her, brushing up against her, and saying things that were of a sexual nature. She complained several times to her mother, but Carolyn only told her it was just Ted’s way. He liked to show his affection; he meant nothing by it. She should be grateful that Ted was providing a beautiful home for them and was taking care of them.

  Lynda did her best in school, but it was difficult when everyone else seemed to have happy, normal lives and hers was something that felt dirty and needed to be hidden. When she wasn’t attending classes, she spent all of her time with the horses. They became her friends, her confidantes, her lifeline from the stress and anxiety that was eating her up on the inside. The day she turned sixteen, her stepfather raped her. She immediately packed up her things and left without telling anyone what had happened. After all, if her own mother wouldn’t believe her, who would?

  Lynda had no plan; all she knew was that she wanted to get away as far as possible. She hitched a ride with a truck driver going to Asheville. His name was “Big John” which was artfully demonstrated by the colorful tattoo on his right arm. She had no money for food, so he offered to buy her a hamburger at the truck stop where he planned to stay for the night. There was also a motel there.

  As a runaway, she knew she had to accept help wherever she could, but she soon learned that nothing was free. Big John wanted payment. Since she had nothing of value, she traded what he really wanted – sex. What difference did it make? Her life was already ruined, on a downward spiral that, short of death, she couldn’t stop. Early the next morning while Big John was still asleep, she slipped out with what few things she had with her and made her way back to the main highway. After about thirty minutes, a 1982 Chevy cargo van pulled to a stop. There were six other girls in the van, a couple of them looked like they were about Lynda’s age. “We’re headed for Atlanta – that’s where all the money is,” the girl with a small silver bolt pierced through her tongue told her. “With your looks, you can get one, maybe two hundred dollars a pop,” a blond wearing shorts and a faded tee-shirt added. Lynda believed them. At least they would be safer to ride with than Big John. She could decide what she wanted to do later, after she got to Atlanta.

  Just before crossing the state line slightly north of Little River, South Carolina, the women got stopped by two highway patrol officers. A man had been killed – trampled to death by his own horses up in Hound Ears. An all-points bulletin had been sent out because there was reason to believe that the missing stepdaughter was involved. The officers had a picture. It was Lynda.

  Lynda never did find out what really happened after she left the day her stepfather raped her. All she knew was she didn’t do anything to him. But that wasn’t good enough for the jury who sat on the case, especially since her own mother wasn’t there to support her. To their way of thinking, Ted had taken the girl in like he was her biological father and given her everything he could, and she still wasn’t satisfied. Many who sat on the jury had teenagers of their own who went to school with Lynda. So they knew she was peculiar anyway, always keeping to herself or hanging around with those horses. The prosecuting attorney convinced them that during an argument in the stables, she killed her stepfather and then spooked the horses to make it look like an accident. She was sentenced to life in the Caledonia Correctional Institution in Halifax, since it was one of the few in North Carolina that housed women inmates, with the possibility of parole after twelve years.

  Carolyn’s accusation that her daughter was a magnet for trouble was self-prophesying. Lynda’s good looks coupled with bad luck put her into situations within the prison that she had neither the maturity nor the courage to stand up against. Male guards taking advantage of female inmates was an on-going problem that was ignored for the most part by those in charge. Short staffed and with little funding, the prison administrators had other priorities to worry about. Lynda soon learned that to complain only made the situation worse. Some of the older, more experienced inmates tried to help Lynda – tell her how it was. But Lynda didn’t want anybody’s help. Probably, deep within her subconscious, she felt she didn’t deserve help.

  Over time she got transferred to three other facilities, none of which were any better. Never once did her mother try to visit her. She had a blanket on a concrete slab for a bed, and meals consisted of food that was often moldy or spoiled. Since she had no money, she couldn’t even buy the snacks that were available at the prison commissary, not that she would have wanted to anyway. Canned sardines or ham and packages of crackers didn’t appeal to her.

  Her last transfer had been ordered because she “couldn’t get along. She was a trouble maker.” Lynda wasn’t a trouble maker. She was just sick and tired of listening to her roommate complain about how difficult it was for visitors to get in to see her when Lynda had no one. Applications that had to be filled out in advance; and there were random searches, metal detectors, and even drug-sniffing dogs. Even the cars the visitors came in were searched. “What do you expect? This is a prison! At least you have visitors,” Lynda yelled at her roommate before shoving her against the wall.

  Now, at age twenty-two, she was distrustful of everyone, especially men, and filled with cynicism and a hot anger that simmered just below the surface. “You should be grateful that you are getting transferred to Braden,” one of the guards at the last facility had told her. But as far as she was concerned, Braden was just another prison, no different from the others. She didn’t care where she was sent. She didn’t care about anything. Not prison, not her mother, not that ass-hole Ted, and certainly not a five-year-old kid who could convince a few pathetic, desperate women that “Santa loves you.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  IT WAS WELL past midnight when Miriam pulled into her carport in the historical residential development in Rocky Mount where she lived. There was a detached garage beyond the carport, but it was full of old furniture, household items no longer used, and other things that she simply didn’t have the heart to get rid of. Besides, the carport was more convenient – at least that is what she told herself if in a moment of weakness when she thought about cleaning out the garage.

  Reporters had been calling all day trying to get more information on the little girl. A couple of particularly aggressive reporters had even been caught walking th
e fenced perimeter trying to get photographs. The newspaper story that had been printed focused primarily on explaining the nine gifts of the Holy Spirit as outlined in Corinthians, the gift of prophesy being one, and a peppering of Milton’s Paradise Lost thrown in for good measure. With little information about the strange little girl to write about, some eager reporter apparently had researched Biblical text and John Milton in order to come up with something to go with the photo showing the governor holding Prissy. That had only added fuel to the fire, though, and now reporters from all over the state wanted information about the child who had been born in a prison and quoted scripture. With strict orders from Miriam, the guards had allowed no one inside the compound. Miriam knew the reporters wouldn’t get discouraged, however. If another story didn’t pull their attention away from Prissy soon, something would have to be done about them.

  Grabbing several folders stuffed with government manuals and loose papers she wanted to work on that evening, she locked the car, walked through the small wooden gate, and let herself into the large, two-story stone house. This had been her family home, the home she had grown up in. She never left it, really, except for when she went off to the university. Even then, she returned home on the weekends to be a part of whatever plans her parents had made. She never even considered staying on campus and going to the beer- and drug-laced parties that were a major part of the university society. When her father died, she continued to live in the old house to help her mother until she passed on as well a few years later. By then there simply was no reason to move. It was where she belonged.