25
“She won’t do it, you know,” Linda said quietly as she escorted Maxine to the Governor’s Office. “There’s no way she’ll let any of you out to attend Smith’s funeral. It’s too big of a risk. And too expensive. Think of the overtime.”
“I have to try,” Maxine replied earnestly.
Linda shrugged. “It’s your time to waste.”
They arrived outside the office. Linda raised her hand to knock on the door, finally turning to look Maxine in the eye.
“I have to try,” Maxine repeated.
Linda sighed and nodded. “I know,” she whispered as she gave three quick raps on the door. Opening it, she stuck her head inside. “Governor? Conway to see you.”
Vera’s brows knit together. She had an idea what this may be about. Subtly fingering the affirmation band she continued to wear around her wrist, she consciously smoothed her features. “Ah yes,” she replied, clearing a file from her desk. “Show her in.”
Linda turned to Maxine. “Good luck,” she muttered as she held the door open for her.
“That will be all, Ms. Miles,” Vera called as Maxine entered, dismissing Linda.
Maxine carefully lowered herself into the chair. She paused for a moment as she waited for the seemingly ever-present nausea to diminish.
“How are you, Conway?” Vera asked, her voice soft.
Maxine was surprised by the Governor’s sympathetic tone.
Vera shifted uneasily in her chair. “I know a little about illness,” she explained uncomfortably. “My mother had a lot of pain before… before she died. I hope that you don’t have to suffer anything like that.”
“Thank you, Governor.” Maxine’s smile was small, but sincere. “I appreciate that.”
Vera nodded. An awkward silence descended on the room.
“So,” Vera cleared her throat. “Ms. Miles informed me that you have a proposition to help the women? I’m always happy to listen to ideas about new programs.”
“It is something that would help the women,” Maxine responded slowly, “but it’s not a program. At least, not exactly.”
“Oh?” Vera asked, trying to maintain a carefully non-committal tone.
Maxine heard the artificial tone, but knew she didn’t have the energy to carefully or even diplomatically make her case. Instead, she dropped her burden squarely on Vera. “The women are hurting,” she informed her seriously. “I know you probably only see little fights, or requests for extra guards during lunch, but things are going to get worse,” she prophesied. “Bea Smith was a fixture to the women. Some liked her, some hated her, but she was one of the few sources of stability. And I don’t mean in terms of being Top Dog,” she quickly added as she saw Vera about to interrupt. “The women knew she was going to be in here for at least twenty more years. And they knew her stances—particularly concerning drugs.” She paused, leaning forward solemnly. “You may think that the guards provide the structure in a prison, Governor, but they only do part of the work. The rest is performed by the strongest of the women. And Bea was strong.”
Vera stilled, listening to Conway. What she was telling her was very similar to an equation that Joan Ferguson had once explained: that a prison is always run by two people: the Governor, and the inmate in charge.
She sighed. “I acknowledge that you may be correct about the women, Conway. But that’s part of mourning.” She spread her hands in a wide gesture. “There’s nothing I can do to stop their pain.”
This was it, Maxine thought. “You can, actually,” she stated emphatically. “A funeral. Bea Smith needs a funeral. You can let the women plan it for her.”
“A funeral,” Vera repeated flatly. She barked a short, humourless laugh. “You think I’m going to allow—that I even have the officer manpower—to allow the women of this prison to attend Smith’s funeral.”
Maxine shook her head. “I know that the women can’t leave the prison. But, with your permission, they can plan the funeral, and it can be held here.”
Vera’s brow furrowed. “The family would never allow it.”
“Governor,” Maxine seemed to say with infinite patience, “we’re Bea’s family. We’re all she had left.”
Vera was startled by the sudden comprehension that Conway was likely correct. She would need to pull Smith’s file for certain, but her daughter and ex-husband were obviously both deceased… were Smith’s parents still alive? Had she had any siblings?
Maxine could clearly read the thoughts as they flickered across Vera’s face. “No,” she said sincerely. “We talked about it. There was no one left on the outside. She was alone. She only had us.”
Vera stared hard at Maxine before turning to gaze out the window, thinking. A funeral for an inmate would be highly unusual, but Smith had always had a surprising hold on the women, even before she became Top Dog. She could remember the way the women rallied around her when her daughter died… And then there was Erica’s horrific decision not to allow Smith to attend Debbie’s funeral—or maybe that had been Channing’s decision? Either way, Vera remembered thinking that it was wrong; that it failed to recognize that Smith was a human first, and a prisoner second.
On the other hand, a funeral would bring attention. It would make public—and final—the fact that Smith had died right here in this prison. It had the potential to make Smith into a saint, and a saint was a danger to the smooth operation of a prison. A saint became the figure around which the women could rally—would rally—whenever they decided things were not going their way.
Vera blinked against the harsh light streaming through the window.
Joan would never have allowed a funeral. It gave the women too much power. And, as much as she hated it, Vera was trying to be Joan-like until the crisis dissipated.
But that, too, felt wrong, she thought, wanting to bang her fist against the desk. She watched the women in the exercise yard. Everything felt wrong. Would it really be so bad if the women had their funeral? Would it truly give them too much power, or would it instead become a collective event that they could use to heal?
Vera sighed again. Turning back to Maxine, she noticed the woman’s pallor. “I will think about it,” she informed her. “And I will ask Mr. Channing about the possibility—but that is all. I make no promises,” she warned.
Maxine nodded, her smile obviously tired.
Vera frowned. “In the meantime, I think we should get you to the infirmary.”
“No,” Maxine shook her head, “I’m fine. I’m just a bit tired, but I’m fine.”
“Then I’m giving you a pass from work duty this afternoon,” Vera informed her, “and I expect you to spend the time in your unit, resting.”
Maxine nodded again. “Thank you, Governor.”
Vera escorted her to the door. As she opened it, Maxine turned to her.
“You’re not like Ferguson,” she blurted. She shook her head, trying to gain control of herself. “What I mean is, Governor Ferguson would never have considered this request. I appreciate that you’re different, Governor Bennett. All the women do.”
Vera stared at her.
Maxine hesitated. “I hope that you will remember who you are as you consider this request.”
Linda Miles, positioned just outside the door, raised her eyebrows.
Vera felt suddenly awkward. “Yes, well, thank you, Conway.” She gave her another quick, hard look. All she could detect was sincerity. “Go rest, now,” she ordered. “Ms. Miles will escort you back to your unit.”
Vera closed the door, shutting them out, leaning her forehead against the hard surface. “Remember who you are,” Conway had said. She wanted to laugh and cry simultaneously. She was governor, a prisoner was dead, she had helped to cover it up, and Joan Ferguson was after her job.
She snorted, tears welling.
As if she had any idea who she was, anymore.