Lady Behind The Wall

Five minutes later I was standing at the counter in the Ladies Lingerie department at Macy's. This was not altogether an improvement. The motherly lady behind the counter put me in mind of my Great-Aunt Elizabeth, who had always hugged me to her bosom and kissed me with the kind of red lipstick it takes five minutes and borax soap to get off your cheek, the sort of old biddy that thought 'darn' was a dirty word and would have fainted dead away at the mention of breasts by a male other than in connection with the Thanksgiving turkey.

I repeated the requirements to her and listened to her cluck thoughtfully before she led me to a wall rack filled with items meant to display and support a woman's rack.

"It happens that 38D is my size, dear. But cup size isn't everything. How tall is the girl?"

"Five foot ten."

"And do they sit high or hang low?" This with a twinkle in her eyes as my face crimsoned.

"Uhh ... err ... well, maybe this would help?" I took out a picture of Deirdre I had printed out from her profile, the one of her in the short shorts and man's shirt with the tails tied up. The saleslady studied it thoughtfully. She reached over and selected a bra from the wall of brassieres in front of us.

"This will do, I think. It has flexible plastic insets running under the bust to transfer the weight onto the ribcage instead of pulling down from the shoulders. Plain white okay?"

"Yes. Three, please."

"All right, dear." She took down two more and we returned to the register where I completed the purchase. As she handed me back my credit card, she said, "Just one more thing.

"I forgot to tell you that this model fastens at the front, between the breasts. That will make it easier when you go to take it off her."

I could hear her chuckling as I blushed clear down to my toes and hurried out of the store.

On impulse, I swung into a drugstore on the way home. I picked up a no occasion card and two boxes of chocolates. When I was back at the house, I packed the bras into zipper freezer bags and wrapped them in generic wrapping paper. I did the same for one box of chocolates, and put the second only into the freezer bag. I then sat down at the table and wrote two notes.

The first was addressed to the corrections officer inspecting inmate packages.

"Ma'am: The bigger package contains three (3) support bras. If you have to unwrap it, I'd appreciate it if you rewrapped it neatly when you are done inspecting. The smaller contains a sealed box of chocolates identical to the unwrapped one. The wrapped one is for Deirdre, the other is for you. It's not a bribe. Corrections officers have a hard job, but they get no respect for what they do. I'm just trying to show my appreciation of your work. Enjoy the chocolates."

I signed my name and wrote three drafts before I picked up the pen to write inside the card.

"I hope these fit okay. The saleslady who sold them to me thinks they'll give you good support and will wear well.

"I just wish that after your tried them on, I could be the one to take them off again for an up close inspection of the contents with attention to taste, mass and texture.

"Think of me when you wear them, darling.

"John."

I sealed the envelope with a bit of tape and attached it to the package, then sealed up the box to send off on my way to work in the morning. It would be interesting to see if my ploy with the chocolates bore fruit.

*****

Deirdre finished a sponge bath at the sink after a day in class with her students and got dressed, strolling out for roll call a minute before the bugles went. Sergeant Carter called the roll and passed out the mail, but hung on to one postcard. Before she turned the platoon over to Ronelle, she ordered, "Little Fox, fall out and come with me."

As Ronelle marched the platoon off, Deirdre obediently followed Carter to the mail room. An open box was sitting on the counter. Carter handed her the postcard. It was from John; who else? The sergeant motioned to the box.

"This was too big to hand out at mail call. I'm sorry, but we had to unwrap things. Go ahead and open it."

Deirdre lifted the flaps of the box and peeked inside. She lifted out the wrapping paper, which Carter put into a trash can, and then slowly lifted out the brassieres, eyes widening.

"There's a box of chocolates in there too," volunteered the guard. "And a note."

"Did you read it?" Deirdre asked. Sergeant Carter shrugged as she nodded.

"Had to; it's my job, you know that. He sent me a box of chocolates too." Deirdre looked startled and Carter laughed. "Don't worry, I'm not poaching. I have a husband and two kids at home. Your John seems to be a nice guy, is all."

Deirdre's eyes suddenly filled with tears. Carter guided her to a seat on the bench in front of the counter as she groped for a handkerchief. She wiped her eyes and said, "Ma'am, I've never had a guy be nice to me unless he was looking to get something for it. I don't know what to think!"

"Well, did it ever occur to you that maybe it's a partner he's looking for? Someone to take care of him, someone he can do for? Somebody he can love?"

Deirdre looked at the floor. "I've thought about it, sure, but how do I know he is what he says he is? Or even that the pictures he's sent me are really of him?"

"Well, honey, just between us girls I happen to know the Warden ran a check on him in the computer when she processed your request to add him to your contact list. He runs a plumbing business and pays his taxes. He belongs to all the professional organizations you'd expect. He's a member of the Rotary and the Masons, and he's a life member of the National Rifle Association. About what you'd expect of a small businessman living in a town that's just a little too far away for commuting to the nearest city.

"The only thing that turned up was a speeding ticket about 12 years back, fine paid. No outstanding warrants, no tax troubles. He's clean as a whistle and licensed to carry concealed because he does a cash business, I guess. I heard the Chief of Police in his town says he contributes to the local police welfare fund every year and always calls to request a traffic officer if his work is going to block a street or the sidewalk. He's a pillar of the community, in other words."

The corrections officer tipped Deirdre's head up to look her in the eye. For an instant, they weren't con and guard, but simply two women talking. "Maybe he just never met the right woman until now. I think he'll be approved to add to your visitors list soon. After that, you can phone him and talk. And maybe then he can come visit. He's making a lot of effort to reach you. If you want him, he's a keeper."

Carter stood up. "You'd better get that stuff into your locker and then doubletime over to the mess hall before all the food is gone. If you leave three old bras on your bunk, I'll take them away and that will square your inventory. Good luck!"

*****

The exchange of letters between Deirdre and me increased substantially after I sent her the bras. She wrote almost every day, telling me what was going on among her students and how they were getting on, gossip about the old ladies they dolled up when they went on trips outside the camp, comments on competitions at Camp Jackson, her doing the Warden's hair before a big party, little anecdotes, whatever was happening. About once a week, she'd send a really long letter, requiring two or even three stamps, with a steamy fantasy about us. Her imagination was so vivid and her descriptions so graphic, they'd give a marble statue a raging erection. I learned to keep a towel handy and read them in bed.

One thing I noticed about her erotica was that the man (her idealized version of me) was always the aggressor and definitely dominated her in matters of sex. Rarely in a Dominant-submissive context, but always the one in charge and frequently controlling her body as they made love or fucked each other hard and heavy depending on the mood by strength, bodily position or sometimes, restraints. I further observed that her responses to my literary efforts were hottest when I incorporated controlling aspects into a story, from blindfolds to corsets and stiletto heels to things like a pirate chieftain spread-eagling her between two palm trees and tormenting her with both ends of a leather flogger before cutting her down and roughly taking her on a Persian carpet under the Caribbean sun.

For my part, I sent her at least a postcard every day, having bought the excess of a postcard collector inexpensively on eBay. Deirdre commented that she didn't realize I got around so much but nonetheless appreciated the lift they gave the whole barracks. I also sent cards of the "thinking of you" variety at least twice a week and a care package of acceptable items, always enclosing something for the censors, once a week. And once a week I'd send off the erotic fantasies I would work up in the evenings, tailoring them to Deirdre's sexual preferences as I inferred them from her letters. Sometimes I wondered if she shared them with her friends on the inside who hadn't anyone to write to them.

Then I got a letter from Deirdre that made my heart leap.

"Darling, Jarhead just gave me the word! You've been officially added to my contact list! That means I can call you, if you're willing to take a collect call from me. I know those are expensive, but they won't allow incoming calls to us here.

"I can access the phone bank here on Saturdays and Sundays from 1300 to 1700– oops, I mean from 1 PM to 5 PM. If you're willing to take my call, please write and let me know ASAP.

"Your eagerly awaiting lover, Deirdre."

'If you're willing to take my call,' indeed! I dashed off a reply in a handwritten envelope and sent if off by Federal Express Next Day Delivery. (One advantage of being the boss is you don't have to justify using the company account for personal business to the office manager.)

"My sweet:

"I will disconnect the answering machine and sit by the phone all Sunday afternoon waiting for your call. I can't wait to hear your voice. I bet it's as sexy as the rest of you. Call as soon as you can.

"John."

It was just as well that we were entering the busiest part of the construction season. The work of hooking up fixtures and running pipes in partially completed houses kept my mind off Sunday for minutes at a time. I asked one of my journeymen to swap duty days with me, even though that meant I'd have to set up the business line to forward to my cellphone and take a company van out to McLean's Dairy Farm. Charlie McLean had asked me to deal with an annoying woodchuck that kept digging holes in the north pasture for his cows to break their legs in, and a weasel that had staked out the henhouse and was killing the chickens. Charlie understood I might have to call off the hunt if a service call came in; we'd known each other since we were 5 year olds in elementary school.

Saturday was a mixture of frustration and satisfaction. I nailed the woodchuck in between two service calls; managed to recover a silk scarf with a ruby brooch a toddler had flushed down a toilet; replaced a broken valve and a section of pipe that cracked when an overconfident home handyman tried to fix the valve without shutting off the water to the house first; and enjoyed a home cooked meal with Charlie, Ruth and their kids. However, the weasel didn't show up and I spent a restless night watching the henhouse waiting for him. I suggested to my friend that he bait a trap with a couple of chicken legs and call me if he got anything, and after an old time country breakfast went home.

Time seemed to drag until one o'clock. I poured myself a light one and settled into my easy chair, the phone silent next to me. I reread some of Deirdre's letters, willing the phone to ring. If time had dragged before, it slowed to a snail's pace now.

One-thirty came and went. Two o'clock, and nothing. I got up and paced for a bit, then resumed my vigil. I got myself a refill and tried to be patient. Two-thirty. I checked the phone to make sure it had a dial tone. It was fine. Two-forty-five. Still nothing.

At 2:47 the phone rang. I got it before the first ring ended.

"Hello? "

"I have a collect call from Deirdre Little Fox to John Middleton. Will you accept the charges?"

"Yes, I will! Put her on!"

"Go ahead, please." Click.

"John?"

Her voice had bells in it, a husky contralto that fitted her pictures perfectly. My throat constricted and for a moment it felt as though I was standing behind myself, looking down at that lunkhead in the leather club chair holding the phone to his ear, unable to say a word.

"John?" Her voice had a hint of fear in it. Was she the butt of a joke? Was I playing a game?

I spun back into myself and my tongue unlocked.

"I'm here, Deirdre." Without my mouth consulting the rest of me, I added, "I'll always be here for you." As my mind assimilated what I'd said completely unbidden, I realized I'd spoken truth, however unintentionally.

*****

Deirdre had put in a phone request with Sergeant Jo and had it approved: 30 minutes, starting at 2:45 PM on Sunday. At 2:30, she got up and casually, or so she thought, started for the door.

"I hope you have a good call," said Ronelle as she passed the bunk where her friend was reading theNational Geographic from Deirdre's subscription. Everyone in the barracks knew that this would be her first real contact with the guy she'd been writing to and was rooting for her. As she stepped outside, she was surprised to see Carter waiting.

"I just wanted to wish you good luck," said the guard. "I hope everything works out. Take this for luck." She handed Deirdre a prayer card.

"The ladies in my church asked me to tell you they've been praying for you. They hope the Good Lord will smile on you and that this guy is the one who's meant for you."

Deirdre teared up and paused to wipe her eyes and tuck the card into her breast pocket before she trusted her voice to work. "Thank them for me, please, Ms. Carter. It means a lot." Understanding, Carter waved her on her way.

She arrived at the rank of phone booths inside the Admin Building with five minutes to spare. She'd never had occasion to use them before and spent the time waiting for one to open up looking at them. They were throwbacks to World War II; oak and glass folding doors with well worn metal seats polished smooth by generations of buttocks and the 1940s style blue and white signs saying "TELEPHONE" with the Ma Bell logo over the doors. The only difference between then and now was that the old rotary dial pay phones hand been replaced by the 1980s-vintage steel pushbutton type with armor cable connecting the handset to the box.

A girl in her early twenties that she didn't know got out of the booth on the end and walked away, wiping her eyes. Deirdre slipped in and sat on the still warm seat, closing the door behind her. The overhead light came on. She picked up the phone and dialed zero plus the number, her palms suddenly sweating.

"Operator. May I help you?"

"Yes. I'd like to place a collect call to John Middleton, please."

"Your name, please?"

"Deirdre Little Fox."

"One moment, please."

Deirdre could hear the booping and beeping that meant the operator was putting the call through. Her heart raced as fast as her thoughts. What if he wasn't there? What if this was all a cruel joke? What if he was only playing some kind of game with her? Was she nuts, putting her self on the line for a guy she'd never even met, for God's sake?

The phone rang. The ringer cut off partway through its cycle.

"Hello?"

"I have a collect call from Deirdre Little Fox to John Middleton. Will you accept the charges?"

"Yes, I will! Put her on!"

"Go ahead, please." Click.

Her hands were trembling so badly, she had to use both to hold the handset. "John?"

Silence. Oh my god, itwas some kind of sick game!

"John?" Fear crept into her voice. She began to realize just how much of an emotional investment she'd made in him. 'You stupid cunt,' added a voice in the back of her head. 'After all you've been through, you should know better than to trust some bastard of a man!'

"I'm here, Deirdre. I'll always be here for you."

Vanquished, her demons of doubt ran whimpering away. She exhaled, suddenly aware that she had been holding her breath. He had a nice voice, deep, with a vibration in it that curled her toes and slicked her labia. She relaxed, suddenly sure it was going to be okay.

*****

As if a dam had broken, both of us tried to talk at once. I stopped, laughed and said, "I'm sorry, baby. You go first."

"I can't believe that I'm really talking to you. That this hasn't been a dream. That there really is a real man there who wants to talk to me. Me, a gal in prison with nobody on the outside!"

"Shush, darling, shush. Don't undervalue yourself. So you're incarcerated with a year and some months to serve, assuming no reduction of sentence for good behavior, which is not the situation in your case. Look at it from my point of view. If you were not behind bars, you would never have sent your profile to that website and I would not have discovered it. If I'd met you in the outside world, I would not have had the courage to attempt to speak to you, much less ask if you might care to step out socially with me. And you would probably have not given me the time of day, never mind acceding to my request that you be seen in public with me. Your bad luck at earning yourself a misdemeanor conviction for driving under the influence is our good fortune in becoming aware of each other's existence. I do not care about your sins against society's moral code. All that matters to me is that you appear to have the feeling I may be someone you would care to know."

"Do you always talk like a college professor?" I could hear amusement in her voice, but not the sort that leads to the devastating put-down with which I was far too well acquainted. She simply found my speech entertaining.

"I try not to, but when I am nervous or angry I revert to my standard speech pattern. I can't call it 'normal,' because it isn't. It's one way Asperger's manifests – sorry, I meant appears to people. Formal language is a defense mechanism– oh, damn, there I go again!"

"Don't worry, darling. It's all right. As we get used to each other, it will stop. I'm scared of talking to you, too, believe it or not. I don't want to say something that will put you off, make you hang up or cut me off."

"As if you could! You have a beautiful voice, Deirdre. Sensuous and sweet, like honey dripping off a perfectly formed, erect nipple. You could be reading the phone directory and I would sit here listening, just enjoying the closeness with you on the other end of the line."

"I like your voice too, John. There's something about it that feels so comfortable in my ear. You make me feel that nothing can be wrong, that you'll protect me and make me happy. I just want to snuggle into you and listen to you whisper sweet nothings to me. It makes me want to serve you any way and every way..."

"Slow down, girl! Do you know for certain that Warden Duffy and her guards aren't monitoring this call?"

I could hear her frown. "They're not supposed to, and Jarhead swears all they do is make sure the timer on the line is working so calls don't run over, but you're right; we can't know for sure. It's routine in many prisons for the guards to listen in. Maybe we should change the subject to something safer– not that I want to. You have no idea how wet just talking to you is making me. But you're right, damn it. How did the interview with your police chief to get you on my list go?"

"Not as oddly as you seem to think. Chief MacLeod just called me up and asked me to stop by after work one day. He vaguely knows me because I have the contract with the town for plumbing repairs in the schools and municipal buildings, have had for a couple of years, and I've been in to fix broken pipes and clogged toilets in the police station a time or two. I don't live in a big town, you know. Everybody may not know everyone else but it's not Six Degrees of Separation, if you see what I mean. You might not know Jane Doe who lives on Mockingbird Lane, but you won't have to go more than two links to find someone who does.