Alias Grace (32 page)

In fact I have no idea of what kind of a sunrise there was. In prison they make the windows high up, so you cannot climb out of them I suppose, but also so you cannot see out of them either, or at least not onto the outside world. They do not want you looking out, they do not want you thinking the word
out
, they do not want you looking at the horizon and thinking you might someday drop below it yourself, like the sail of a ship departing or a horse and rider vanishing down a far hillside. And so this morning I saw only the usual form of light, a light without shape, coming in through the high-up and dirty grey windows, as if cast by no sun and no moon and no lamp or candle. Just a swathe of daylight the same all the way through, like lard.

I took off my prison nightdress, which was coarse-woven and of a yellowed colour; I should not say it was mine, because we own
nothing here and share all in common, like the early Christians, and the nightdress you wear one week, next to your skin while you sleep, may two weeks previous have been lying close to the heart of your worst enemy, and washed and mended by others who do not wish you well.

As I dressed myself and tidied back my hair there was a tune going through my head, a little song that Jamie Walsh used to play sometimes upon his flute:

I knew I’d remembered it wrong, and the real song said the pig was eat and Tom was beat, and then went howling down the street; but I didn’t see why I shouldn’t make it come out in a better way; and as long as I told no one of what was in my mind, there was no one to hold me to account, or correct me, just as there was no one to say that the real sunrise was nothing like the one I’d invented for myself, but was instead only a soiled yellowish white, like a dead fish floating in the harbour.

At least in the Lunatic Asylum you could see out better. When you were not muffled up in a darkened room.

Before breakfast there was a whipping, out in the courtyard; they do it before breakfast, as if those being whipped have eaten first, they are likely to spew up their food, and that makes a mess, as well as being a waste of good nourishment; and the keepers and guards say they like the exercise at that time of day, as it gives them an appetite. It was only a routine whipping, and nothing unusual, so we were not summoned to watch it; two or three only, and all of them men; the women do not get whipped so frequently. The first was
young, by the tenor of his screaming; I can tell these things, having had a good deal of practice. I tried not to listen, and thought instead about the pig that was stolen by Tom the thief, and how it got eaten; but the song did not say who ate it, whether it was Tom himself or those who caught him. Set a thief to catch a thief, as Mary Whitney used to say. I wondered, was it a dead pig to begin with? Most likely not; most likely it had a rope around its neck or a ring through its nose, and was forced to run away with Tom. That would make the most sense, as it would save the carrying of it. In the whole song, the poor pig was the only one who did no wrong, but it was also the only one who died. Many songs, I have noticed, are unfair in this way.

At breakfast, all was silent except for the munching of bread and the slurping of tea, and the shuffling of feet and the snuffling of noses, and the drone of the Bible being read out, which today was Jacob and Esau and the mess of pottage, and the lies that were told and the blessing and birthright that was sold, and the deceptions and disguises that were practised, which God did not mind at all but the contrary. Just as old Isaac was feeling his hairy son, which was not his son at all but a skinned goat, Annie Little gave me a hard pinch on the thigh, under the table where it could not be seen. I knew what she was about, she wanted to make me scream so I would be punished or else thought to be having another attack of insanity, but I was ready for her, as I was expecting something of the sort.

In the washhouse yesterday, as we stood at the sink, she leant over and whispered to me, Doctor’s pet, spoiled whore; because the word has gone round, and all know about the visits of Dr. Jordan, and some think I am having too much attention paid to me, and have grown proud with it. If they think that here, they will take you down a peg or two; and it would not be the first time, as they resent my service in the Governor’s house as well; but they’re afraid to act too openly, thinking I might have the ear of some in power. There is
no place like a prison for small jealousies, and I’ve seen some come to blows, and even close to murder, over nothing more than a piece of cheese.

But I knew better than to complain of her to the matrons. Not only do they view such tale-tellers with disgust, preferring a quiet life for themselves; but also they might not believe me, or might say they did not, as the Warden says a convict’s word is not sufficient evidence; and then too, Annie Little would be sure to be revenged on me in some other way. One ought to bear all patiently, as part of the correction we are subject to; unless a way can be found, of tripping up your enemy without detection. Hair pulling is not advisable, as the racket brings the keepers, and then both sides are punished for creating a disturbance. Dirt slipped into the food by means of the sleeve, as with magicians, may be accomplished without much fuss, and may bring some satisfaction. But Annie Little was in the Asylum with me, her crime being manslaughter, having struck and killed a stableboy with a log of wood; and she was said to suffer from nervous excitement, and was sent back here at the same time as me; but should not have been, as I do not think she is right in the head; so I resolved to forgive her this time, unless she did worse. And the pinch appeared to have relieved her feelings.

Then it was time for the keepers, and our walk out through the gate, Ah Grace, out for your promenade with your two beaus, ain’t you the lucky one. Oh no, we’re the lucky ones, we’re the lucky boys ourselves, with such a morsel on our arms, says the one. What do you say Grace, says the other, let’s just nip up a side alley, into a back stable, down on the hay, it won’t take long if you lie still, and quicker yet if you wriggle about. Or why lie down at all, says the one, back her up against the wall and heave-ho and hoist the petticoats, it’s a quick jump standing up, as long as your knees don’t give out on you; come Grace, just give us the word and we’re your lads, one as good
as the other and why settle for one when there’s two standing ready? Standing ready all the time, here, give us a hand and you can test the truth of it. Nor we won’t charge you a penny neither, says the other, what’s a good time between old friends?

You’re no friends of mine, I say, with your filthy talk, you were born in the gutter and you’ll die in it too. Oh ho, says the one, that’s what I like, a little high spirits in a woman, a little fire, they say it comes with the redness of the hair. But is it red where it most counts, says the other, a fire in a treetop is no use at all, it must be in a fireplace to cast enough heat, in a little cookstove, you know why God made women with skirts, it’s so they can be pulled up over their heads and tied at the top, that way you don’t get so much noise out of them, I hate a screeching slut, women should be born without mouths on them, the only thing of use in them is below the waist.

Shame on you, says I, as we walk around a puddle and across the street, to talk that way, your own mother was a woman or at least I suppose she was. And bad cess to her, says the one, the whoring old witch, the only part of me she ever liked to see was my bare bum covered with stripes, she’s burning in Hell this moment and I’m only sorry it wasn’t me put her there, but a drunken sailor whose pocket she tried to pick, and who knocked her on the head with a bottle. Well, says the other, my own mother was an angel to be sure, a saint on earth according to her own reckoning, and would never let me forget it; and I don’t know which is the worse.

I’m a philosopher, says the one, it’s moderation for me, not too thin and not too fat, and best not to waste God’s gifts to us, speaking of which Grace, you’re ripe enough to be picked, why stay on the tree untasted, you’ll just fall off and rot at the foot of it in any case. True enough, says the other, why let the milk go sour in the bowl, a sweet nut should be cracked while there’s still some goodness in it, as there’s nothing worse than a fusty old nut. Come, you’re making my
mouth water for you already, you’re enough to turn an honest man into a cannibal, I’d like to get a strong grip on you with my teeth, just what you might call a nibble, a small bite out of the ham end, you’d not miss it, you’ve enough on you and to spare. Right you are, says the one, look, she’s got a waist like a willow but she’s taking on fat below, it’s all the fine cooking they do at the prison, cream-fed she is, would you just take a feel of it, that’s a haunch fit for the Pope’s own table. And he took to kneading and prodding, with the one hand that was hidden by the folds of my gown.

I’ll thank you not to take liberties, I say, pulling away. I’m all for liberties myself, says the one, being a republican at heart, having no use for the Queen of England except what Nature intended, and though she’s got a fine pair of bosoms on her and I’d pay her the compliment of giving them a squeeze at any time she might request it, she’s got no chin to her at all, no more than a duck; and what I say is, no man is better than the next, and it’s share and share alike and none preferred; and once you’ve given it out to one of us, why then, the others must all take their turns like true democrats, and why should that little runt McDermott be allowed to enjoy what is denied to his betters?

Yes, said the other, you gave him liberties enough, a fine time you had of it I’ve no doubt, with him sweating away at it all night in the tavern in Lewiston with barely a pause to refresh himself, for they say he was a prime athlete, and a dab hand with the axe as well, and could climb up a rope like a monkey. Right you are, said the other, and at last the cunning fellow tried to climb into Heaven, and ended by making such a high leap into the air that he stayed up there for two hours, and could not be made to come down of his own accord, no matter how they called, but had to be fetched. And he danced while he was up there, a spry jig with the ropemaker’s daughter, as lively as a rooster with its neck fresh wrung, so it did your heart good to see it.

And stiff as a board he was afterwards too, I’m told, said the one; but that’s just what the ladies like. And here they laughed very much, and thought they’d made the finest joke in the world; but it was cruel in them, to laugh at a man simply for being dead; and bad luck also, for the dead don’t like being laughed at; and I assured myself that they had their own ways of protecting against injury, and would deal with the keepers in good time, either above the ground or beneath it.

I spent the morning mending some blonde lace of Miss Lydia’s, that she’d torn at a party; she does tend to be careless about her clothes, and ought to be told that such fine clothes as hers are do not grow on trees. It was delicate work and a strain on the eyes, but I got it done at last.

Dr. Jordan came as usual in the afternoon, and seemed fatigued, and also troubled in mind. He hadn’t brought any vegetable with him, to ask me what I might think of it; and I was a little taken aback, as I had become used to this part of the afternoon, and had enjoyed wondering what he would bring next, and what it was he wanted me to say about it.

So I said, Sir, you are without any item today.

And he said, Item, Grace?

Any potato or carrot, I said. Or onion. Or beet, I added.

And he said, Yes, Grace, I have determined upon a different plan.

What is that, Sir? I said.

I have decided to ask you, what it is that you yourself would like me to bring.

Well Sir, I said. That is indeed a different plan. I would have to consider it.

So he said I was welcome to do that; and meanwhile, had I had any dreams? As he was looking forlorn, and as it were at a loss, and as I suspected that not all was going well with him, I did not say that
I could not remember. Instead I said that I had indeed had a dream. And what was it about, said he, brightening up considerably, and fiddling with his pencil. I told him I’d dreamt about flowers; and he wrote that down busily, and asked what sort of flowers. I said that they were red flowers, and quite large, with glossy leaves like a peony. But I did not say that they were made of cloth, nor did I say when I had seen them last; nor did I say that they were not a dream.

And where were they growing, said he.

Here, I said.

Here, in this room? said he, looking very alert.

No, I said, outside in the yard, where we take our walks for exercise. And he wrote that down as well.

Or I suppose he wrote it down. I cannot be certain, because I never see what he writes down; and sometimes I imagine that whatever he is writing down, it cannot possibly be anything that has come out of my mouth, as he does not understand much of what I say, although I try to put things as clearly as I can. It’s as if he is deaf, and has not yet learnt to read lips. But at other times he appears to understand quite well, although like most gentlemen he often wants a thing to mean more than it does.

When he’d finished writing I said, I have thought of what I would like you to bring next time, Sir.

And what is that, Grace, said he.

A radish, I said.

A radish, he replied. A red radish? And why have you chosen a radish? And he frowned, as if it was a matter for weighty thought.

Well Sir, said I, the other things you have brought have not been for eating, or so it seemed; because most of them would need to be cooked first; and you took them away again with you, except for the apple you brought the first day, and very nice it was too. But I thought that if you brought a radish, it could be eaten with no preparation; and they are now in season; and it is very seldom we get
anything fresh in the Penitentiary, and even when I eat in the kitchen of this house, I do not get such garden stuff, as it is reserved for the family. So it would be a rare treat; and I would take it very kindly in you, if you would bring a little salt as well.