Glass Cell Read Online Free Page A

adjusted his rimmed glasses nervously and blinked at Carter. “You try to fight city hall and you go crazy. I’m not going to be here much longer.” He nodded, as if to confirm himself, and Carter immediately became suspicious. “It’s time for another shot for you, isn’t it?”
    Carter wrote a letter to the warden, whose name was Joseph J. Pierson, with regard to Moonan and Cherniver. He had intended to make the letter brief, calm and to the point. The result was such a masterpiece of understatement, Carter was seized briefly by an attack of mirth. It read:
    Dear Warden Pierson,
    I should like to call to your attention that on the afternoon of March 1, I was strung up by the thumbs in one of the basement rooms of the institution for nearly forty-eight hours. I was repeatedly revived with buckets of cold water when I fainted. The result is that my thumbs are permanently damaged, the second joints having been pulled from their sockets. The guards who did this are Mr. Moonan and Mr. Cherniver. I respectfully request that you exercise your authority in regard to this incident.
    Yours faithfully,   
    Philip E. Carter
    (37765) 
    P.S. I would be grateful if I could have a full list of prison rules and regulations so that I may avoid an accumulation of demerits in future.
    Carter had heard from one of the inmates that Warden Pierson was scrupulous about acknowledging letters of all sorts, but never answered any of them. At any rate, Carter dropped the letter in the slot marked “Intramural,” and that was that. Patience and fortitude, he thought. It was going to be a long, slow fight, whatever Hazel thought. He was going to see Hazel on Sunday. Dr. Cassini had put in a special request that he might see his wife. In just seventy-two more hours, he would see her for twenty minutes. A cheerful fatalism buoyed him up: they couldn’t very well kill him before Sunday afternoon, so nothing seemed to stand in the way of his seeing Hazel. In the hospital ward it was impossible to acquire demerits, because he was not actually doing anything, walking anywhere, or using any prison tools or facilities other than the toilet.
    He reread Wuthering Heights , and wrote to Hazel:
    My darling,
    Imagine sitting in prison and reading Emily Brontë? Things are not so bad, are they? Please do not worry, above all don’t get angry if you can help it. I was angry the first weeks here and it got me nothing but a lot of demerits and ill will from the guards. Best not even to feel the anger if you can help it. Make like the yogis or the passive-resistance boys. We are up against something a lot bigger than we are.
    Am glad Timmy is doing better with his reading, glad also he is not getting any heckling lately at school. Or are you sure? He would tell you, wouldn’t he? But I’m not so sure. He might frown and be silent. Is he frowning and silent? Tell me. I am writing him a letter next, so you will miss one from me, but meanwhile tell Timmy I think he is great for doing such a good job as man of the house while I am not there. I mean snow shoveling. After all a half inch of snow is a rough job!
    Am helping out in the ward as much as I can—bedpans and other charming chores. Don’t worry about my hands. Am not writing too badly as you see. I love you, darling.
    Phil
    The effort of writing tired him like hard labor, and the writing was pretty bad—wobbly and nearly every letter separate from the next.
    “Mistuh Carter,” said the Negro urgently. “Mistuh Carter—”
    Carter went to the foot of the Negro’s bed, lifted between his two palms the bedpan from the low table there, and slipped it under the covers.
    “Thank y’, sir.”
    “You’re welcome,” Carter murmured, although the Negro could not hear him.
    On Sunday, Carter took extra care with his shaving. It was another great advantage of the hospital ward that he could shower and shave daily, instead of twice a week being herded with the others to the showers and the barbers. He