A squat, middle-aged Mexican woman said, “ЎQue suerte verte! Nice to see you. What they got you in for, querida?”

Tracy was too paralyzed to answer.

The third woman was black. She was almost six feet tall, with narrow, watchful eyes and a cold, hard mask of a face. Her head was shaved and her skull shone blue-black in the dim light. “Tha's your bunk over in the corner.”

Tracy walked over to the bunk. The mattress was filthy, stained with the excreta of God only knew how many previous occupants. She could not bring herself to touch it. Involuntarily, she voiced her revulsion. “I — I can't sleep on this mattress.”

The fat Mexican woman grinned. “You don' have to, honey. Hay tiempo. You can sleep on mine.”

Tracy suddenly became aware of the undercurrents in the cell, and they hit her with a physical force. The three women were watching her, staring, making her feel naked. Fresh meat. She was suddenly terrified. I'm wrong, Tracy thought Oh, please let me be wrong.

She found her voice. “Who — who do I see about getting a clean mattress?”

“God,” the black woman grunted. “But he ain't been around here lately.”

Tracy turned to look at the mattress again. Several large black roaches were crawling across it. I can't stay in this place, Tracy thought. I'll go insane.

As though reading her mind, the black woman told her, “You go with the flow, baby.”

Tracy heard the warden's voice: The best advice l can give you is to try to do easy time….

The black woman continued. “I'm Ernestine Littlechap.” She nodded toward the woman with the long scar. “Tha's Lola. She's from Puerto Rico, and fatso here is Paulita, from Mexico. Who are you?”

“I'm — I'm Tracy Whitney.” She had almost said, “I was Tracy Whitney.” She had the nightmarish feeling that her identity was slipping away. A spasm of nausea swept through her, and she gripped the edge of the bunk to steady herself.

“Where you come from, honey?” the fat woman asked.

“I'm sorry, I — I don't feel like talking.” She suddenly felt too weak to stand. She slumped down on the edge of the filthy bunk and wiped the beads of cold perspiration from her face with her skirt. My baby, she thought. I should have told the warden I'm going to have a baby. He'll move me into a clean cell. Perhaps they'll even let me have a cell by myself.

She heard footsteps coming down the corridor. A matron was walking past the cell. Tracy hurried to the cell door. “Excuse me,” she said, “I have to see the warden. I'm —”

“I'll send him right down,” the matron said over her shoulder.

“You don't understand. I'm —”

The matron was gone.

Tracy crammed her knuckles in her mouth to keep from screaming.

“You sick or somethin', honey?” the Puerto Rican asked.

Tracy shook her head, unable to speak. She walked back to the bunk, looked at it a moment, then slowly lay down on it. It was an act of hopelessness, an act of surrender. She closed her eyes.

Her tenth birthday was the.most exciting day of her life. We're going to Antoine's for dinner, her father announced.

Antoine's! It was a name that conjured up another world, a world of beauty and glamour and wealth. Tracy knew that her father did not have much money: We'll be able to afford a vacation next year, was the constant refrain in the house. And now they were going to Antoine's! Tracy's mother dressed her in a new green frock.

Just look at you two, her father boasted. I'm with the two prettiest women in New Orleans. Everyone's going to be jealous of me.

Antoine's was everything Tracy had dreamed it would be, and more. So much more. It was a fairyland, elegant and tastefully decorated, with white napery and gleaming silver-and-gold monogrammed dishes. It's a palace, Tracy thought. I'll bet kings and queens come here. She was too excited to eat, too busy staring at all the beautifully dressed men and women. When I'm grown up, Tracy promised herself, I'm going to come to Antoine's every night, and I'll bring my mother and father with me.

You're not eating, Tracy, her mother said.

And to please her, Tracy forced herself to eat a few mouthfuls. There was a cake for her, with ten candles on it, and the waiters sang Happy Birthday and the other guests turned and applauded, and Tracy felt like a princess. Outside she could hear the clang of a streetcar bell as it passed.

The clanging of the bell was loud and insistent.

“Suppertime,” Ernestine Littlechap announced.

Tracy opened her eyes. Cell doors were slamming open throughout the cell block. Tracy lay on her bunk, trying desperately to hang on to the past.

“Hey! Chow time,” the young Puerto Rican said.

The thought of food sickened her. “I'm not hungry.”

Paulita, the fat Mexican woman spoke. “Es llano. It's simple. They don' care if you're hungry or not. Everybody gotta go to mess.”

Inmates were lining up in the corridor outside.

“You better move it, or they'll have your ass,” Ernestine warned.

I can't move, Tracy thought. I'll stay here.

Her cell mates left the cell and lined up in a double file. A short, squat matron with peroxided-blond hair saw Tracy lying on her bunk. “You!” she said. “Didn't you hear the bell? Get out here.”

Tracy said, “I'm not hungry, thank you. I'd like to be excused.”

The matron's eyes widened in disbelief. She stormed inside the cell and strode over to where Tracy lay. “Who the fuck do you think you are? You waitin' for room service? Get your ass in that line. I could put you on report for this: If it happens again, you go to the bing. Understand?”

She did not understand. She did not understand anything that was happening to her. She dragged herself from the bunk and walked out into the line of women. She was standing next to the black woman. “Why do I —?”

“Shut up!” Ernestine Littlechap growled out of the corner of her mouth. “No talkin' in line.”

The women were marched down a narrow, cheerless corridor past two sets of security doors, into an enormous mess hall filled with large wooden tables and chairs. There was a long serving counter with steam tables, where prisoners lined up for their food. The menu of the day consisted of a watery tuna casserole, limp green beans, a pale custard, and a choice of weak coffee or a synthetic fruit drink. Ladles of the unappetizing-looking food were thrown into the tin plates of the prisoners as they moved along the line, and the inmates who were serving behind the counter kept up a steady cry: “Keep the line moving. Next… keep the line moving. Next…”

When Tracy was served, she stood there uncertainly, not sure where to go. She looked around for Ernestine Littlechap, but the black woman had disappeared. Tracy walked over to a table where Lola and Paulita, the fat Mexican woman, were seated. There were twenty women at the table, hungrily wolfing down their food. Tracy looked down at what was on her plate, then pushed it away, as the bile rose and welled in her throat.

Paulita reached over and grabbed the plate from Tracy. “If you ain't gonna eat that, I'll take it.”

Lola said, “Hey, you gotta eat, or you won't last here.”

I don't want to last, Tracy thought hopelessly. l want to die. How could these women tolerate living like this? How tong had they been here? Months? Years? She thought of the fetid cell and her verminous mattress, and she wanted to scream. She clenched her jaw shut so that no sound would come out.

The Mexican woman was saying, “If they catch you not eatin', you go to the bing.” She saw the uncomprehending look on Tracy's face. “The hole — solitary. You wouldn't like it.” She leaned forward. “This is your first time in the joint, huh? Well, I'm gonna give you a tip, querida. Ernestine Littlechap runs this place. Be nice to her an' you got it made.”