Come Home

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Six


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         Leaving the gate with all the memories that had happened in that house, was heavy. I knew that my visit was over and so was the agreement that I had from the state. The prosecutor allowed me this time to see Dad, and then I had to spend my time in jail.


         Rose had made sure that the authorities knew who was responsible for the fire. I was not angry. She had come to her scenes and went back to her family, but no one would cross her by taking something from her. I had burned her house. That I knew I would not get away with burning the house that called to her and dad so clearly. I broke the spell that it had on my family.


         Mom was standing in the living room with two police officers. They were there to take me to my new home. I was going to spend three to five years behind bars. I gave Mom a hug. She had tears in her eyes. “I am proud of you.” Mom whispers.


         I put out my hands for the cuffs, but they just walked me to their car. I felt confront knowing that Mom understood what I felt that I had to do. I could not think of anything except that I saved my family.


         “Matilda, you have mail.” Sharon the guard informs me. I had no idea who would be writing me here. I speedily opened the letter. It was from my publisher. “Matilda,


         We regret that you are in the situation that you are. However, we wold like to offer you a three million book contract. All your material and books are selling off the shelves. The public has been wanting more of Sara and the house.” I was surprised that they still wanted my work with the arson record that I received. “We think that this would give you a nice nest egg to come home to. You can make a new start.”


         I thought about how I used to love to write, and that now I have all the time I need to do so. I was given access to the library to use the computers. I am so glad of that because I have to use spell check or my material would make little since. My lawyer made sure that I had all the paper that I would need. I was given all the books that I had written in the series to reference for the new book.


         “Matilda Wright,” a new girl notes. “You wrote Sara , Why the Children Die, and The Mother in the Window?” She was so excited. She handed me Why Children Die so that I would sign it. I had been asked to sign a book before, but not in a situation like this.


         “You started the fire that burned the house of Sara down?” She questioned.


         I liked those words. I think that this book is going to be  The House of Sara burns. “Yes, I burned the house.” I explained.


         “No one was hurt in the flames,” She stated. “They should not have put in here for the simple act of the fire.”


         “I told her the story that my sister owned the house, and that she was in the right to prosecute.”


         During my stay in jail, I met many interesting women that were not bad people just caught in bad situations. Nancy was the first to show an interest in writing. She was the girl that noticed who I was when she first was led into the cell block. Her life was filled with drugs, incest, and homeless. I gave her some of my notebooks, and she began to write. Next Mary read one of my books, and wanted help writing about the chaos of a family that did not believe that she should be in love with another girl. They threw her out of the house at fifteen, and she ate by selling herself out. In no time inmates were coming up to me in the cafeteria, the yard, and even in the shower, all wanting to know how to get started in writing their stories. I tried to help them all.


         One evening while I was in the library the warden sent for me to meet with him. “Matilda, it is so nice to meet you.” He motions to the chair. “The place has been a buzz all about you.”


         “I'm sorry if I am disrupting in some way. I just want to do my time and go back to my life.” I proclaimed.


         “Not at all,” the warden adds. “ I think that you can help others while you are here. Psychiatrist here thinks that a creative writing course could benefit the ladies to get their stories out so that they can heal.”


         “I don't have a degree in any writing courses.” I make sure that he knows that I am not a qualified to teach.


         “That is fine.” he continue, “Three of the ladies that you have worked here have published through their lawyers, and each seem to have a much better confidence than they did before. They are doing much better in their sessions.”


         He told me that he would put word in for me to be released early for good behavior. I agreed to do this. It made me feel as though I had a true reason for being where I was. That the fire was a bad thing that could help more than just my family.          


         In the next few days, I received work books, papers, and writing software to work with my students. I could not believe that I could use the words like my students.


         I could not sleep the night before I was due to teach the class. I wondered if anyone would show. If they do show, would I be ready to actually to teach. I write only what I know.  I stacked and re-stacked the material that I would use. When I did go to sleep I dreamed of teaching in an empty library.


         Then we had breakfast. I could not eat. My stomach was churning as if the butterflies were caught in a hot tub. After we ate, I heard a message over the loud speaker.


         “We have a surprise for anyone interested. Today we have a creative writing course in the library. It is taught by our own Matilda Wright. If you want to have fun and pass the time writing your story for publish or just your own eyes. This is a class that is worth checking out.”


         I walk on to the library. There I found five girls waiting for me to start the class. Nancy was one of the students. I was happy to see her smiling face. It made me more confront able to take on the class before me. Another surprise was that each of the women had one of the books from the series about Sara.


         Up on seeing the books, I had an idea. “I will sign every book after this class. How many of you have finished all the books in the series.” I pause for a show of hands. Every hand raised. “Well I think that each of you could write your own book as good or better than the book that you have on you desk. Today, I would like to have each of you just write me a short story. This story could be true now or a goal that you want to reach. I want to be able to feel your emotions, and be part of the story myself. So each of you can either write you rough draft on the computer or write it out straight then type it in to the computer.”


         I hand each of the soon to be writers two note books. “One is write items that you think you want to share in with others, and the other is for you to journal. Sometimes the best material is the events of your own life.”


         As each one brought up her book, I personalized it. One of the books was a the first thing that I had written. It was a book of poetry “Emotions From My Heart”. I was surprised to see this book.  “I have not signed one of these before. I didn't think that anyone even bought any.” I inform Stella.


         “My mom bought this for me when I turned fourteen. She said that it shows that others have life hard. I love the book.” She said. “I have used those poems as encouragement, they let me know that I am not alone.”


         I thumb through its worn pages. It seemed that ever other page was covered with notes about how this poem could be used in her own life. “Is this the only one of my books that you have read?” I asked her.


         “No, I have read the first book about Sara, but I got it from the library. I like this one better.” There she smiles, when she noticed that I was pulling out a newspaper clipping. It was one of three that I found in the book. These were clippings of poems and short stories that I had published free in a Christian newspaper. The words were dimming with age.


         I was impressed. “I will make you a deal. I will give you a book from each of the series, if you allow me to make copies of these. I will have them laminated, and return them to you in a couple of days.”


         When I gave her the book back, she slowly brought the clippings back out. She reluctantly handed them to me. I am surprised and honored that these meant so much to her. “I can not wait to read your material. I know that you will have a great story to tell.” I encourage her. “I will get these right back to you.”


         Before my class could walk from the library, a guard hands me a box. “This is a gift from the warden. I think that you will like it.”


         I open the box and it had about fifty clothe bags. In each bag was my last book, a tablet book, high lighters, and index cards. “Guess what girls? Don't leave yet.” I inform them. “The warden has sent us a gift.” I handed each one of them a bag and a creative workbook that I had planed to hand out in a couple of days.”


         Once the ladies left, I feel a since of worth. The warden must have faith in me. There are over fifty bags, but right now I have nine students on my list. I hope that I don't let him down. I leave the room. When I returned to my cell I began to work on a workbook myself so that I am more prepared to teach the material.


         Each day I looked forward to gathering with the only people that I could actually call my friends. I learned that  Stella was a victim of domestic violence both as a child and a wife. Hospitality is all that she had known in her fifty or so years of life. The reason she found her self in prison was that her husband beat her unconscious. The next day she walked in on her husband and sister having sex in their marriage bed. Stella picked  up a baseball bat that she had taken from her grandchildren earlier that week. She began swinging at anything that moved. She beat her husband to the point that he was placed in the hospital for three months. The other woman just received a few stitches and a lesson. Stella got ten years in prison.


         As I worked with Stella, she bloomed with potential. Some days on the yard, the other inmates enjoyed hearing her read her stories. I decided to call my publisher. I was happy that she sent me a reply to send a partial of Stella's manuscript.


         After my class began to grow, the warden began to enlist people in the writing professional to make appearances in the class. One day my publisher was making a visit to the class. I introduced her to Stella. Before the class began, and Stella was surprised by being handed a contract for her biography. When the class began and the announcement was made, everyone had tears in their eyes. Every woman in the room had a renewed since of hopefulness that they had lost so long ago.


         Then there was a newspaper publishers, editors, magazines journalists, and news reporters. The more that came to visit the more of the class was published. Some even was signed with contracts. Five of the contracts were issued from the same place that I got my start. I was so proud of the class. I felt that I had accomplished something bigger than myself.