Glass Houses(37)

Maybe it was organization he was afraid of. Maybe that was a thing. Maybe he had a fear of organization. Mostly he thought he had just done what any sane man would do if he had the chance and the courage. He had refused. He had refused to become part of the kind of life that houses represented. He had refused to stuff himself into the confines of day-to-day rigidity. He had sent up a great protest to the Cosmos and the God of Bourgeois Healthiness. He would be neither healthy nor productive nor disciplined. He would have nothing at all to do with an organized life.

There was a sound out there in the corridor. Henry turned on his cot until he saw that somebody was standing at the bars to his cell. He’d thought that he himself and this guard were probably the only people back here. This is where they would hold drunks and junkies for an hour or two before they could get them into night court, but there were no drunks or junkies in here tonight.

“Hey,” the guard said, “I got another call from that sister of yours.”

The guard was tall and lanky. Henry liked the look of him.

“Which sister?” he asked, as if he cared.

“Mrs. Woodville. That’s what she calls herself on the phone. Mrs. Woodville.”

They all talked about themselves like that. Henry knew. His mother’s generation had done it, too, although his mother hadn’t done it quite so much. When he thought really hard, he could remember his mother perfectly. She was as clear to him as if she were standing here in the cell. Margaret and Elizabeth had hated her, of course. Especially Margaret. Sometimes Henry hated her, too.

“What did she want?” Henry asked.

“She wanted to ask about you.” The guard laughed a little. “They both call up all the time wanting to ask about you. Are you comfortable. Are you eating. Are you willing to talk to them.”

“I don’t want to talk to them.”

“I know. And we’ve got rules, and it’s not the time for phone calls. But they call and ask. I don’t see what you think is wrong with that. That’s a good thing, having family who care about you.”

“They don’t care about me,” Henry said. This was true. Margaret, especially—everything in his life was “Margaret, especially”—was concerned about the publicity, and the survival of the great name of Tyder, and the embarrassment all this was going to cause, but she wasn’t concerned about him.

“Well, they act like they are,” the guard said. “I wouldn’t throw that in the trash if I were you. Anyway, I just thought I’d tell you she called.”

Henry turned onto his back, blinking a little. The light was right up there. It was a bare bulb, and very bright, and you couldn’t turn it off. The guard was waiting for him to ask about the news on television, but he wasn’t going to do it. He could see it later if he wanted to. He wondered what he had looked like coming into court. He’d still been in his street clothes. He must have been a mess.

“What did you do with my clothes?” he asked, just as the guard was turning away. “Did you throw them out?”

“I didn’t do anything with them,” the guard said. “But receiving will have put them aside for you, along with anything you had in your pockets.”

“Do they wash them?”

“No. They put whatever you come in with in a box, just as it was, and you get it when you get out. If you get out.”

“What if I don’t get out? What if I move to another prison?”

“This isn’t prison,” the guard said automatically. “This is just jail. But your box goes with you, place to place. It will be waiting for you when you get out.”

“What if I never get out?”

“It will be turned over to your next of kin when you die.”

“There should be a watch in that box,” Henry said. “I still had it when I went into court. It was my father’s watch. They hate that I have it.”

“Who does?”

“Mrs. Woodville. And Mrs. Beaufort. My sisters. But mostly Mrs. Beaufort. Mrs. Woodville isn’t as wrapped up in that kind of thing.”

“If it’s in the box, it’ll go with you,” the guard said. “We don’t steal the prisoner’s personal effects. Don’t you remember being read the list when you were brought in?”

“No,” Henry said. This was true. He didn’t remember much of anything about being brought in.

“Well, somebody read you the list. And showed you the stuff going into the box. Trust me, that happened. Tell your lawyer about it tomorrow and get him to look into it, if you’re worried about the watch.”

“She had a Miraculous Medal,” Henry said.