“Colin, this is Tony,” Rafe says, cutting the guy off before he can say anything. I stick out my hand automatically, tensing since the cut is still a bit sore, but Tony’s handshake is gentle, if overlong. “It’s Colin’s first time,” Rafe says, “so I thought I’d just get him situated and take him through a few packages. Then I’ll make those calls.”
“Great, great. Good to see you. We’re being a bit careful with tape today because of those packages that got sent back. Well, and because we’re running out, like always.” Rafe smiles and nods. “Okay. Glad you’re here, Colin,” Tony says, and then he’s called away by a skinny girl in jeans and about three layers of flannel even though I’m starting to sweat because the small room is so crowded.
“So,” Rafe says, walking over to a corrugated plastic mail bin full of letters. “People who are incarcerated across Pennsylvania write to us and request books.” He rips open the letter. “They say what kinds of books they’re interested in—sometimes a specific book, sometimes a genre or a subject. Like, here.” He hands me the letter. “This man wants a dictionary and books on World War II.”
The handwriting in the letter is the neatest I’ve ever seen. It looks like an old-fashioned love letter or something, every loop perfectly formed. I guess you have a lot of time to practice penmanship in prison.
Thank you for the books you sent on dogs, the letter says. I have read them three times so far. I enjoy the pictures too so if there are histories of this war with pictures then great! The paper is thinner than the lined paper I used in high school.
“Once we know what he wants,” Rafe continues, “we go look up which prison he’s in and see if there are any restrictions on what we can send.” He follows a line on the sign taped to the wall with his finger. “Okay, no hardcovers.” He grabs a paperback dictionary from a stack of fifty or so against the far wall and then gestures for me to follow him down a steep staircase. “Dictionaries are a really popular request so we get them wholesale. The rest of the books are donated.” He hits a button and the basement illuminates in a crackle of dusty, mismatched bulbs. It’s a lot cooler down here, and it smells like mold.
“All the shelves are labeled by topic. Fiction’s upstairs and nonfiction’s down here.” He points to the right. “World War II” is written in faded blue bubble letters on a sign laminated with tape.
“Rafe, what is this? Why are these people sending books to people in prison?” I’m overwhelmed by strangeness. Like I’ve gone to sleep and woken up somewhere I shouldn’t be.
“Well, people in prison want to read too, Colin.”
“Aren’t there libraries?” I know I’ve seen that in movies.
“There are. But they’re extremely underfunded and very small. And copies of popular books—dictionaries, popular fiction, anything with sex or violence in it—have a way of disappearing. Besides, a lot of incarcerated folks have read everything in their prison’s library, so this gives them a chance to request things they couldn’t get otherwise.”
Rafe’s voice is animated, passionate.
“I get that,” I say. “But, I mean, aren’t they supposed to be being punished?”
Rafe pulls himself up straight and it’s only then that I realize how often he leans in toward me. He seems more remote, and when he speaks, he sounds impatient.
“People make mistakes, Colin. That doesn’t mean they deserve to suffer forever. Besides, self-education will be an advantage to them when they’re released.”
I nod, feeling like I’ve waded into waters that are deeper than I suspected.
“I didn’t mean to piss you off,” I say. “I just didn’t know this was, like, a thing.”
Rafe touches my shoulder lightly, turning me toward the books.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Do you want to pick a book for him? A softcover.”
I don’t really get what we’re doing here, but I flip through a few books on World War II, looking for one that doesn’t seem too dry. Finally, I find a good one and hold it out to Rafe.
“He said he wanted pictures,” I say, and Rafe smiles.
Upstairs, Rafe grabs us the corner of a table and shows me how to respond to the letter and package the books for mailing. The other people at the table all seem to know each other, and Rafe introduces me.
“So,” a girl with artfully styled hair says, “do you live in the neighborhood?” She’s just trying to be polite, I know, and make conversation, but though the people don’t all look the same, they all look different than me and I’m hyperaware that I don’t know what I’m doing.