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13.
When Tedda stepped out of the warm office—which, despite its rude girls and mix of pungent smells, seemed cozier than this strange dreary place with its rain and rumpled-looking soldiers—Tedda found a young woman waiting for her on the grass just off the street. She was fairly thin, wearing a motley assortment of clothes—an old chasse-green pea coat like Watka's but far older and torn, over a faded blue and very baggy prison jumpsuit; a scratchy looking scarf the color and consistency of an old brown foot rug; and scuffed shoes that were two sizes too big. Her hair was mousy, page boy hanging ragged down to her loosely flapping woolen epaulets. Her face was pale and bony, with redness where she seemed to continually run a finger along one sinusy nostril. Her mouth was wide and expressive, her eyes pale gray and speculative. She seemed to be speculating whether Tedda could be a friend, or if Tedda meant to wound her. "Hi, I'm Lindy," she said in a strangely soft voice.
"Tedda."
Lindy reached out and shook the hand proffered by Tedda. "I'll show you around. We're cell mates. You're not queer, are you?"
Tedda shook her head.
"Good. I don't like to mess around. I hope you're easy to get along with."
"I hope the same."
"Maybe we'll get along." Lindy stuck her hands in her pockets.
"Maybe."
"I hope so." A hint of a grin flickered across Lindy's haunted face. "What did you do?"
Tedda shrugged. "No idea."
"I didn't know for a while either," Lindy said seriously. "They do things to you with pills. Either they put you on or take you off. When they took me off I remembered."
"What?"
"Cutting my sergeant's throat while he was raping me. That's why I'm in here. Whom did you kill?"
"I have no idea."
Lindy leaned close, hands in pockets, butt up, while she studied Tedda's face. "Yeah, your eyes are a little hosed. You're still on drugs. Maybe you better pray they don't take you off and you remember whatever it was. I'll tell you this."
"What?" They started to walk down the gravel road along the interminable seeming dirty white wall, while the air smelled of chicken shit and horse droppings.
Lindy led the way, but glanced sidelong over her shoulder at Tedda. "Anyone assigned to this place is here for a long time. Forever." She pulled a large metal key from her pocket, on a purple ribbon attached to her belt under the pea coat. "Tell you something else."
"What?" Tedda inhaled the growing fog, the droplets from an as yet invisible rain gathering like cold sweat on her face.
"They don't mess with you much. No dirty stuff, no beatings. You know what that means?"
"What?"
"It means we are important to them for some reason."
"Who?"
"The government that runs this place."
"This prison?"
"Prison, fortress, headquarters, it's all the same. The Government of West Gotha, that's our country. The Fatherland." Lindy flicked a sloppy, mock salute with the wrong hand past her eyebrow. "May God save and keep our Cheddar, the great Billo."
Tedda had her hands in her pockets and shivered in the growing fog. She laughed. "What does all that mean?"
Lindy laughed too. "Damned if I know. I just overhear things. These are mostly just country people, in case you haven't guessed."
Their feet crunched in rhythm on the gravel as they approached a low, wide circular tower with a black slate roof overgrown with moss, tucked between huge weeping willows. Overhead, clouds scudded in low, darkening as raindrops started spattering on Tedda's head and shoulders.
"So," Tedda said with a sudden flash of insight, "that must mean—"
"What?"
"We are city girls?"
"You're serious."
"What do you mean?"
"You must be joking."
"Did I ask something wrong?"
Lindy rolled her eyes up as she advanced on the cottage door holding the key on the purple ribbon before her. "Girl, you've got it bad. You really don't remember much, do you?"
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