The Reflection

El looked in the mirror, but nothing stood out. Good; she was ready for work. The day was pleasant enough, and El always enjoyed watching eagles and the other birds of prey soar and dance in the sky on her way out to the prison.

At the gate stood a young family. The young mother picked up her son so he could push the button that alerted the staff to their presence. She joined the group as the clang signified the release of the magnet, and slowly but noisily, the gate opened. She then rushed to get in front of the family before they reached the building; she would go through security quickly, and they would not. The awaiting officer gave a brief, “Good morning, McCall,” as she put her car keys and the plastic bag holding her lunch in the bin and stepped through the metal detector. No noise came from the contraption; no underwires, no metal barrettes, or metal beads, she knew all the tricks. She wouldn’t waste anyone’s time, including her own. She was told to have a good day. As she hit the next button, she thought of the boy’s fascination with the gate and tried to count how many gates she would go through today. For many people, leaving work was a solo act, not in prison.

She collected her radio and keys—Great, there was a line in front of her library. Pill-call. Medical was across the hall; inmates lined up and waited for their turn. Many of these men were her patrons. In the library, they were almost students, but in pill-call, they were adolescents lacking discipline, and waiting for a chance. She braced herself for the cat call, wolf-whistle, or snicker that she would need to ignore. They couldn’t get out of hand in the presence of an officer, but it was an annoyance. One of her workers had called it “running the gauntlet,” and the sentiment echoed through her every time she passed it.

She unlocked the library door and locked it behind her. She had half an hour to get settled before the workers came down, and then another half-hour before patrons. She unlocked the door to her office and noticed a note on the desk from the librarian who worked the other half of the week. “New worker, going to work on the database.” At least her cohort had communicated she’d hired someone. It needed to be done, but El often forgot the details of her job. Security protocols barred inmate computers from the internet, forcing the library to build and maintain its own isolated network. She had suggested several changes, and it seemed the other librarian had agreed. The library would never be current, but it didn’t mean that systems needed to be out of date. There were thousands of men in the facility with a variety of skills. While the other librarian managed the administrative details, El focused on the mission: the expansion of minds through literacy. In this closed world, literacy opened doors

El unlocked the door and greeted the waiting workers, who were involved in an in-depth discussion of their very non-appealing breakfast. The last one wore the green scrubs of the facility, but his face was unfamiliar. “You must be the new worker. As you probably know, I’m Miss McCall. I guess you talked with Miss Hancock about what you were going to do with the database. I’d like to hear your ideas, too.” She looked around and laughed at the inmates standing there. “The rest of you know what to do.” She watched the workers pull out library carts, separate request forms, and check shelves for books out of order, and straighten as they went. She had a good crew, but sometimes they needed a reminder.

“Miss McCall, this library database is out of date and minimalistic. I would like to see a more robust system. We should at least cross-reference the series titles and the authors who write under different names. I would like to add pictures of the books, but I am not sure if there is a way to accomplish that and maintain security. I know I am only allowed on a non-network computer, but I have big ideas.” He was grinning, clearly excited by his own ideas.

“Wow, you have thought this out, Mr.—Um? Sorry.”

“Castille, Ma’am, and yes, I talked to Miss Hancock quite a bit the other day, and I was able to get on the computer for a little while, too. I can just go over to the unused computer in the corner and do my thing, if it’s okay with you. I would be glad to answer any questions, though. I have worked in the education department; they can vouch for me.”

“No, Mr. Castille, I trust Miss Hancock’s decisions, and I appreciate your enthusiasm for the task. I look forward to the results. Everybody ready? It’s time for our first patrons.”

The day went by with the usual difficulties: groups weren’t sent, people appeared at the wrong time, and facility problems required one group to be stuck in the library for an hour and a half. El interacted with each group, asking about characters in books or if they had read the author. El appreciated that the inmates respected her book knowledge, and she found she learned as much from them as they did from her. She knew many people would never see this side of life, and she felt honored seeing this secret world.

Prison was a job; more predictable than most. El knew people would be amazed at the consistency of prison. The repetition ate at the lives of everyone, including both inmates and staff. It was odd that something so monotonous could diminish the outside world for those who were only there for ten or twelve hours at a time. The vibrancy of the world disappeared when the gates closed behind you. It was changes that threw inmates off. They lived in a constant routine. El would laugh at herself when she found herself eating the same food every night or running to the store at the same time. “Just like work.”

The weeks dissolved with the closing of gates and the sea of inmates in green scrubs. El’s job varied little. She watched Mr. Castille evolve the database into a much more robust system. He would often come to her with questions about books or how things should appear. She found him watching her as she interacted with the men, but that was pretty standard. She knew most prison employees spent more effort creating distance between themselves and inmates. She treated them as she would customers in retail. They appreciated her respect, and she realized they were individuals barely different from those outside the walls. Some of the inmates preferred the old word “convicts” to “inmates,” because it differentiated them only by the conviction, but the respect for the term “convict” vanished when it was shortened to “con.” There was no all-encompassing word for all of the people who wore the same uniform.

As time went on, she noticed Mr. Castille’s increasing presence in her office. His questions became more about the books she liked, her opinion of individuals, and the events of the day, than about the database. Many employees steered all conversations away from themselves, but long-term prison employees realized there was only so much self they could separate at the gate every morning. El answered his questions, thinking nothing of it.

One day, as workers wrapped up to go home, Mr. Castille told his coworkers he’d join them in the chow line in a minute; he had one more question for Miss McCall. Hearing this, El looked up and saw Mr Castille heading towards her door. “What’s up, Mr Castille? I know you need to get the good stuff before it runs out,” she joked.

Mr. Castille didn’t smile back; he seemed nervous. “Miss McCall. I’m going to say something that could get me into a lot of trouble, but I have to say it.”

“Okay,” replied El. “Words don’t scare me.”

The words came out in a rush. “Miss McCall, I get out soon, and I want to see if you could consider going out with me.” His body still held the tension, but he released a breath. The words had escaped. “I think it might be better to ask now so you don’t see me as a former inmate stalking you. I know it’s a bold move, but I believe you see us beyond the colors we wear. I am just going to leave you with that thought and hope you don’t turn me in for flirting with staff before I see you again. Dinner awaits.”

El sat in her chair, a million things whirling through her head, as she watched Mr. Castille almost run for the door. It wasn’t the first time she’d encountered similar behavior, but this felt different. It didn’t feel like someone trying to figure out her boundaries; it was a man asking for a chance. The conversation was unacceptable according to prison standards, but El hadn’t lied: she was not afraid of words and would never report an inmate who spoke his mind. She chuckled to herself as she realized it was Friday evening and she would have to sit with Castille’s words over the weekend until she saw him again.

There were several times during the weekend she thought about Castille. Recognizing how much she put the inmates in the same category, she didn’t know much of the man, even though he had done his best to ferret out information about her. He seemed younger but not significantly so. He had good people skills with her and the rest of the crew. She wondered about his interests and tried to recall conversations with the man. Somehow, most of them seemed to be about her and not him.

The idea of dating a former inmate was such a scandal, though, and how long until he got out? She couldn’t have a romance at work; she was respected. That wasn’t what he’d been asking. She was adding too much to his simple request. She was creating a scandal over a romance while the man had asked for no more than a conversation. “Was this what she’d become? Someone who looks for problems instead of enjoying life.” She knew inmates weren’t the only ones who became institutionalized.

Other times, she thought of how so many people she worked with lost their outside lives to their prison jobs. Divorce and suicide rates were high among prison workers. Maybe it was time to think of escaping prison herself. The job was easy, but the pay was meager, and she had so many bosses to please; as a librarian, everyone was her superior. The job had given her a unique perspective; maybe it was time to move on before she was sucked further into this world.

On Tuesday, after her long weekend, she looked at her reflection in the mirror for a second longer, wondering if her identity was as solid as she thought it was on Friday morning. One confession from someone else did not have the power to change her world. She turned off the bathroom light and went to work.

At the end of the day, she watched Castille linger as the other workers gathered their things to leave. They cleared the door, and he slid into the office. “Thank you for not reporting me, Miss McCall. If you want, I won’t make any more efforts, but I would like to get to know you. Can I ask your first name?”

El laughed. “Don’t think I’m stupid; you know my name is Elana. I know inmates know far more than people think. My full name is on documents all over this place, and inmates trade information the way the world thinks they trade cigarettes. I also know how many inmates collect women, and it is a bit of a game. I have laughed at those stories, too.”

Castille stared at her, “Ma’am, people are not games, and I think you are very smart. Oh, I have even written love letters for some of those guys, but I don’t play their games. I get out in two weeks, and I am just hoping for a phone number before I leave. I did know your name, but I was hoping you would give it to me.” As he left, he said, “My name is Mark, and I have turkey mash waiting for me in the dining hall. Have a great night, Miss McCall.”

The room was silent after the door closed behind Castille—Mark. El took a moment in the silence to absorb all of the thoughts spinning through her head. It would be a long night.

Looking in the mirror the next day, El whispered, “Who are you?” As if an answer, she found her reflection was smiling. She turned off the light and left for work. On her drive, she watched a hawk dive for an unseen morsel on the ground and wished she could stop to watch it. As she watched, she began drafting her resignation in her head. Maybe Friday, she would give notice. The thought of job hunting made her wince, but maybe it was time.

She watched Castille—Mark present his final version of his program in her office. “Wow!” she said, “This is so much better than what we had. I am thrilled with the program. I hope Miss Hancock left some good notes in your file.”

“She did, but I’m never coming back here, so I don’t think they matter too much, but your smile does make me happy, Miss McCall.

Looking around, she said, “Call me El,” as she slid a scrap of paper across her desk. The page contained nine digits scrawled on it—nothing else. Mark quickly took the paper without touching her and made it disappear into a pocket. She looked up into the smile on his face and grinned, “But not when anyone else is around, Mark, and no more hanging around the library after everyone leaves.”

“Yes, ma’am, I understand,” he said a bit louder than necessary. Quietly, he added, “Thank you, I have so much more to look forward to now.”