Fisher walked past the outside stairway and turned the corner of the mess hall. There were lights across the way in the main cellblock. He moved out into the yard enough to look up at the second floor of the mess hall and saw a light on in the superintendent’s office. The little Sunday school teacher was still there, or had come back after supper. Before going home Fisher had brought in his written report of the escape and the file on Raymond San Carlos. The Sunday school teacher had been putting his books away, taking them out of a suitcase and lining them up evenly on the shelf. He’d said just lay the report on the desk and turned back to his books. What would he be doing now? Probably reading his Bible.
Past the latrine adobe Fisher walked over to the mess hall and tried the door. Locked for the night. Now he moved down the length of the building, keeping close to the shadowed wall though moving at a leisurely pace—just out for a stroll, checking around, if anybody was curious. At the end of the building he stopped and looked both ways before crossing over into the narrow darkness between the cook-shack adobe and the tailor shop.
Now all he had to do was find the right brick to get a free show. About chin-high it was, on the right side of the cook-shack chimney that stuck out from the wall about a foot and would partly hide him as he pressed in close. Fisher worked a finger in on both sides of the brick that had been chipped loose some months before, and pulled it out as slowly as he could. He didn’t look inside right away; no, he always put the brick on the ground first and set himself, his feet wide apart and his shoulders hunched a little so the opening would be exactly at eye level. They would be just past the black iron range, this side of the work table where they always placed the washtub, with the bare electric light on right above them.
Fisher looked in. Goddamn Almighty, just in time.
Just as Norma Davis was taking off her striped shirt, already unbuttoned, slipping it off her shoulders to let loose those round white ninnies that were like nothing he had ever seen before. Beauties, and she knew it, too, the way she stuck them out, standing with her hands on her hips and her belly a round little mound curving down into her skirt. What was she waiting for? Come on, Fisher said, take the skirt off and get in the tub. He didn’t like it when they only washed from the waist up. With all the rock dust in the air and bugs from the mattresses and sweating under those heavy skirts, a lick-and-a-promise, armpits-and-neck wash wasn’t any good. They had to wash theirselves all over to be clean and healthy.
Maybe he could write it into the regulations: Women convicts must take a full bath every other day. Or maybe every day.
The Mexican girl, Tacha Reyes, appeared from the left, coming from the end of the stove with a big pan of steaming water, and poured it into the washtub. Tacha was still dressed. Fisher could tell by her hair she hadn’t bathed yet. She had to wait on Norma first, looking at Norma now as she felt the water. Tacha had a nice face; she was just a little skinny. Maybe give her more to eat—
Norma was taking off her skirt. Yes, sir, and that was all she had. No underwear on. Bare-ass naked with black stockings that come up over her knees. Norma turned, leaning against the work table to pull the stockings off, and Bob Fisher was looking at the whole show. He watched her lay her stockings on the table. He watched her pull her hair back with both hands and look down at her ninnies as she twisted the hair around so it would stay. He watched her step over to the tub, scratching under one of her arms, and say, “If it’s too hot I’ll put you in it.”
“It should be all right,” Tacha said.
Another voice, not in the room but out behind him, a voice he knew, said, “Guard, what’s the matter? Are you sick?”
Twisting around, Bob Fisher hit the peak of his hat on the chimney edge and was straightening it, his back to the wall, as Mr. Manly came into the space between the buildings.
“It’s me,” Fisher said.
“Oh, I didn’t know who it was.”
“Making the rounds. I generally check all the buildings before I go to bed.”
Mr. Manly nodded. “I thought somebody was sick, the way you were leaning against the wall.”
“No, I feel fine. Hardly ever been sick.”
“It was the way you were standing, like you were throwing up.”
“No, I was just taking a look in here. Dark places you got to check good.” He couldn’t see Mr. Manly’s eyes, but he knew the little son of a bitch was looking right at him, staring at him, or past him, where part of the brick opening might be showing and he could see light coming through. “You ready to go,” Fisher said, “I’ll walk you over to the gate.”
He came out from the wall to close in on Mr. Manly and block his view; but he was too late.
“What’s that hole?” Mr. Manly said.
“A hole?”
“Behind you, I can see something—”
Bob Fisher turned to look at the opening, then at Mr. Manly again. “Keep your voice down.”
“Why? What is it?”
“I wasn’t going to say anything. I mean it’s something I generally check on myself. But,” Fisher said, “if you want to take a look, help yourself.”
Mr. Manly frowned. He felt funny now standing here in the darkness. He said in a hushed tone, “Who’s in there?”
“Go ahead, take a look.”
Through the slit of the opening something moved, somebody in the room. Mr. Manly stepped close to the wall and peered in.
The light glinted momentarily on his glasses as his head came around, his eyes wide open.
“She doesn’t have any clothes on!”
“Shhhh.” Fisher pressed a finger to his heavy mustache. “Look and see what they’re doing.”
“She’s bare-naked, washing herself.”
“We want to be sure that’s all,” Fisher said.
“What?”
“Go on, see what she’s doing.”
Mr. Manly leaned against the wall, showing he was calm and not in any hurry. He peered in again, as though looking around a corner. Gradually his head turned until his full face was pressed against the opening.
What Norma was doing, she was sliding a bar of yellow soap over her belly and down her thighs, moving her legs apart, and coming back up with the soap almost to her breasts before she slid it down again in a slow circular motion. Mr. Manly couldn’t take his eyes off her. He watched the Mexican girl bring a kettle and pour water over Norma’s shoulders, and watched the suds run down between her breasts, Lord Jesus, through the valley and over the fertile plain and to the dark forest. He could feel his heart beating and feel Bob Fisher close behind him. He had to quit looking now; Lord, it was long enough. It was too long. He wanted to clear his throat. She was turning around and he got a glimpse of her behind as he pulled his face from the opening and stepped away.