Diary of an Ugly Duckling Read online

  “He’s like a minute ahead of you.” She checked a

  thick-banded, masculine-looking watch on her freck-

  led forearm. “Make that two minutes, now.” She

  looked up and winked at Audra. “If you hurry, you

  might be able to catch him,” she finished, and Audra

  was pretty sure she didn’t just mean in the hallway.

  “Sit down, Marks. Sit down,” Deputy Warden Wood-

  burn said as Audra appeared in the open doorway

  of his office.

  Art Bradshaw had already settled his massive col-

  lection of muscles into one of the Warden’s two side

  chairs, but he jumped to his feet as soon as Wood-

  burn’s words indicated her presence. He didn’t

  speak—or even turn in her direction—just stood at

  attention as gallant as any movie prince for the few

  DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

  33

  seconds it took for Audra to navigate the room and

  ease herself nervously into the proffered chair be-

  side him. Audra took a quick second to admire his

  profile, the breadth of his football-player-wide

  shoulders and the smooth skin of his shaved skull,

  wishing in spite of herself that he’d turn so she

  could see his eyes. Her heart was doing a vaudeville

  soft shoe in her chest: If the man had spoken to

  her, she might have had another kind of accident—

  and she didn’t have any more uniform pants to

  change into right now.

  She squared her shoulders, imagining herself en-

  cased in one of those big-shouldered suits of the

  1940s, concentrated her attention on the deputy war-

  den and sat, making a futile attempt to cross her

  legs, diva-style, before giving up and folding them

  against each other, ankle to ankle. “Sir,” she said,

  crisply. “You wanted to see me?”

  Deputy Warden Stephen Woodburn looked like

  he’d been at work for hours. His desk was cluttered

  with papers, and a huge mug, running over with

  coffee, sat fresh and steaming on a manila folder,

  making a dark stain. On a credenza behind him

  were pictures of a brown-haired woman and three

  towheaded kids dressed in their Sunday best, an-

  gled for maximum visitor admiration.

  “Don’t look so nervous, Marks,” Woodburn said,

  grabbing the stained folder beneath his coffee cup.

  Audra read her name on a white label across its

  tab. “I don’t think you have any real reason to be.

  But . . .” he paused to skim through the folder’s con-

  tents, giving Audra a moment to skim her eyes over

  his short, graying hair, very precisely trimmed in a

  34

  Karyn Langhorne

  conservative cut, and the rimless glasses perched on

  a straight nose. The man’s eyes left the folder and

  found hers again. “We do have a slight problem that

  impacts you, and to a lesser degree, Officer Brad-

  shaw. That’s why I’ve asked you both to drop by be-

  fore assuming your duties this morning.”

  He paused the pause Audra knew came before

  any climactic bombshell in every movie worth its

  salt. Audra had just counted one, two, three in her

  mind when Warden Woodburn said:

  “So yesterday, there was an incident in the day

  room. Or rather, a couple of incidents,” he corrected,

  pale lips curving into something like a smile. “One

  involving a couple of inmates in a scuffle . . . and

  the other involving . . .” he coughed a little, as

  though suddenly uncomfortable. “Shall we call

  it . . . uh . . . a wardrobe malfunction?”

  Wardrobe malfunction. Am I ever going to live this

  down? Audra wondered as, once again, a prickly

  embarrassment warmed her cheeks and neck. She

  could almost hear her mother in her mind ( What

  must he think of you? ) as Woodburn averted his face

  from hers as if to spare her shame. She cut her eyes

  toward Bradshaw, but got nothing but a stoic profile,

  so there was nothing to do for it but sit up a little

  straighter and make the most of it, the only way she

  knew how. She settled her fist on her hip and leaned

  forward.

  “Both were contained according to procedure,

  sir,” she wisecracked, wiggling a bit and keeping

  the Mae West purr in her voice.

  Woodburn chuckled a little and Audra whipped

  DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

  35

  her head toward Art Bradshaw to gauge his reaction.

  Nothing but his profile. Still.

  “You’re funny, Marks,” the deputy warden told

  the folder. “Humor’s a helpful quality in our profes-

  sion, within limits, of course. But unfortunately . . .”

  his eyes snapped to her face again. “One of the in-

  mates involved . . . a Mr. Haines . . . has filed a brutal-

  ity complaint. Apparently he was injured yesterday.

  Broken ribs, it appears . . .”

  Both humor and Hollywood died the moment the

  word brutality hit the air.

  “A brutality complaint? Against me?”

  “A brutality complaint. Against you,” Woodburn

  repeated. “Haines alleges you violated his civil

  rights and caused him personal injury when you

  lifted him bodily off the floor then threw him

  against a table—”

  “Threw him against a table!” Audra shook her

  head, astonished. “I was breaking up a fight—a fight

  he probably started!” She peered toward Wood-

  burn’s folder. “Does it say that in there? Because

  there were about two dozen witnesses.” She nodded

  in Bradshaw’s direction. “Officer Bradshaw can tell

  you—”

  Woodburn lifted his hand, stopping the rest of the

  explanation tumbling form Audra’s lips. “He al-

  ready has, Officer Marks. In fact, he says your con-

  duct was exemplary, both in dealing with the

  inmates involved in the altercation, and in handling

  the . . . uh . . . wardrobe malfunction. But I’m not the

  one who has to be convinced,” he continued briskly.

  “I’m sure Mr. Haines’s charges will be dismissed in

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  Karyn Langhorne

  short order. But Haines is within his rights to file it,

  and, as you know, it will have to be investigated by

  the Internal Review Board—”

  Charges? Internal Review? Me? Audra swallowed

  back an A to Z catalog of emotions: from anger to the

  zealous desire to wring Princeton Haine’s sneaky,

  scrawny neck. Only that would be police brutality, now,

  wouldn’t it? wisecracked a voice in her head, and for

  a wild half-second, Audra wasn’t sure she would be

  able to stop herself from laughing—knowing full

  well that if the laughter started, the tears wouldn’t

  be too far behind.

  “But sir, it’s a waste of their time!” Audra insisted.

  “It’s utterly groundless—”

  Woodburn raised his silencing hand again. “I

  know this is frustrating, Marks, but that’s procedure

  and we’re going to follow it to the letter,” he said,
>
  and his nonexistent lips disappeared that much

  deeper into his face. “The rules require that any offi-

  cer accused of misconduct toward an inmate be re-

  moved from duty until a cause/no cause inquiry is

  completed, so you’re officially on administrative leave

  pending resolution of the investigation. Shouldn’t

  be more than a week, I would guess.” He curved the

  lower half of his face into a grim smile. “Try to think

  of it as a well-deserved vacation, not as a discipli-

  nary action.”

  Audra suppressed a sigh. “I understand, sir.”

  Woodburn took a nervous sip of his coffee.

  “There’s . . . uh . . . one other thing,” he continued,

  licking his lips. “Regarding the . . . uh . . . wardrobe

  malfunction? That’s not likely to happen again, is it?

  Because it poses . . . uh . . . all kinds of problems. I

  DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

  37

  mean, this is a men’s correctional institution and—”

  “I know, sir. It’s not appropriate for a woman to—”

  “Oh, it’s not that,” Woodburn said, dismissing her

  femininity behind another quick gulp of his mug.

  “It’s a question of maintaining authority and order

  here, Marks. This is a prison, not a comedy club. Im-

  pressions and wisecracks are fine, but they are sec-

  ondary to the realities of what we do. Just lose

  weight or buy the right size or . . . whatever . . .” His

  eyes found hers. “Right?”

  “It won’t happen again,” Audra said quickly be-

  fore the man could skip down this yellow brick road

  any further. She cut another surreptitious glance

  Bradshaw-ward, but if the size of Audra’s ass was of

  any interest to him at all, she couldn’t read it on his

  face.

  Woodburn shifted his attention to Bradshaw, too.

  “How are you adjusting, Bradshaw? I suspect Man-

  hattan Men’s is a walk in the park compared to Up-

  state, huh?”

  “Yes, sir,” Bradshaw said, filling the room with

  his mellow baritone for the first time. Audra turned

  toward him, reveling in the sound of his voice, but

  again, the man wasn’t looking at her.

  He hadn’t spoken to her, hadn’t looked at her at

  all, not even when she was wiggling her ample hips

  Mae West style . . .

  Audra frowned, suddenly unsure. Maybe it was

  just being in Woodburn’s office. Or maybe he was

  concerned about being involved with anyone who

  was accused of brutality and now relieved of duty.

  Or maybe . . . maybe . . . maybe her mother was

  right, and he didn’t like the way she looked—

  38

  Karyn Langhorne

  Audra smoothed a nervous hand over her hair and

  then along the crease of her new uniform pants. She

  licked her dry lips, wondering if she still had the

  nerve to vamp up to him with the lines of a movie on

  her lips. Abort, abort, abort, something in her brain

  was screaming, and Audra was inclined to obey.

  “Anything else?” The deputy warden’s eyes

  flicked over them both one last time, dismissing

  them. “If not . . . thank you, Officers.”

  And before she could even turn to glance at him,

  Art Bradshaw had unfolded his big, tall body and

  made a quick, silent exit.

  “There’s a speed limit in this state, mister—uh—I

  mean, ma’am.”

  Audra stopped short. There was no doubt who

  was speaking—there was no one else in this silent

  office corridor far from the day-to-day activities of

  prison life.

  Relieved of duty, after leaving Woodburn’s office

  Audra had changed back into street clothes and was

  about to leave the building when the big man’s voice

  arrested her, not far from the officers’ break room.

  Audra whirled around, staring into the man’s

  face in surprise.

  He was so handsome, with those liquid amber

  eyes and perfect bow-shaped lips . . .

  “There’s a speed limit in this state. Forty-five

  miles an hour,” he repeated, and then paused,

  clearly waiting for her response.

  Speed limit? There wasn’t a statewide speed limit,

  and in the city the limit was more like thirty or

  thirty-five.

  DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

  39

  “Come on, Marks,” he rumbled at her, a glimmer

  of playfulness in his eyes. “Double Indemnity, re-

  member?”

  Audra cleared her throat.

  “How fast was I going, Officer?” In her nervous-

  ness and surprise, her voice was less Barbara Stan-

  wyck and more hoarse whisper, but somehow even

  that felt loud in this quiet corridor. Audra could

  barely hear herself at all over the knocking of her

  heart. Her fingers twitched to reach for her ankle—

  checking for that telltale anklet the screen legend

  had worn. There couldn’t be an anklet—she didn’t

  own one, but if Art Bradshaw had actually tracked

  her down to quote Double Indemnity, some kind of

  magic was afoot, perhaps the same kind that could

  produce an anklet where there had been none.

  I told you, Ma! I told you, Audra thought, doing a

  happy dance in her head. I knew he liked me! I knew

  it—

  As if reading her mind, Art Bradshaw’s perfect

  lips curved upward into a shy smile. “I’d say about

  ninety,” he said softly.

  That was the next line. Audra knew the scene by

  heart. Almost without realizing it, she took a step up

  the corridor toward him. “Suppose you get off your

  motorcycle and write me a ticket?”

  “Suppose I give you a warning?” he said, tracking

  the dialogue from the movie, word for word.

  “Suppose it doesn’t take?” Audra shot back, right

  on cue.

  Bradshaw’s shy smile had widened into a big grin.

  He took a long step toward her, narrowing the dis-

  tance between them.

  40

  Karyn Langhorne

  “Suppose I’ll have to rap your knuckles then.”

  “Suppose I put my head on your shoulder and

  cry,” Audra said.

  Bradshaw hesitated. “Next line is Stanwyck’s,

  ‘Suppose you put your head on my husband’s shoul-

  der,’ but that doesn’t fit, does it?” He lifted an eye-

  brow over those striking light eyes. “For a couple of

  reasons.”

  Audra stared at him, the spell only partly broken

  now that the dialogue was his own words and not

  the words of a movie script. “I didn’t think anyone

  knew that scene but me.”

  Bradshaw shrugged. “I love movies,” he said, his

  deep voice soft. “Had a film noir phase. A few years

  back. Double Indemnity is one of my favorites.”

  “Mine, too,” Audra agreed. “I love the banter.

  And it’s kind of a love story—”

  “Pretty sour ending, though.” Bradshaw grimaced.

  “Not many people know the old black-and-whites.

  Nice.”

>   “Yeah . . .” Audra said, and before she knew it,

  her face had gone all gaga and gushy and she was

  staring at him like he was dessert and she hadn’t

  had chocolate in over a year. “Nice for me, too.”

  In the pause that followed, Bradshaw’s eyes slid

  off her face and focused so steadily on a spot over

  her shoulder that Audra turned. There wasn’t any-

  thing behind her but wall.

  “What are you looking at?”

  He hesitated again, and for a flash of a second,

  Audra feared her mother might be right. After all,

  he’d heard the inmates’ remarks—heard the litany

  of fat, black and ugly—and he had eyes after all. For a

  DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

  41

  moment her mask of bravado slipped and she

  wanted to cover herself head to toe like the Muslim

  women in the foreign land where Petra was now

  stationed.

  “Uh . . . nothing,” he said. His eyes snapped back to

  her face and Audra’s concerns were swept away again,

  lost in those bright, honeyed orbs fringed by black

  lashes. “I . . . uh . . .” he hesitated until Audra quirked

  a curious eyebrow at him. “Forget Haines,” he offered

  in his clipped, not-a-single-unnecessary-word way.

  John Wayne, Audra thought. He talks like John Wayne.

  “Warden’s right: be cleared up in a few days.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt him—”

  “You’re a tough woman. Strong,” Bradshaw said

  with a nod.

  “Is that a good thing . . . or a bad one?” Audra

  laughed, rolling her eyes girlishly.

  Bradshaw considered for a long time before reply-

  ing, “Good. If you’re a corrections officer,” in a tone

  as serious as if she’d asked him to opine on death.

  “Which you are.”

  Audra stared at him, parsing through the words

  fifteen different ways before she decided to just

  mark it down as a compliment and move on. She

  gazed up into Bradshaw’s eyes, a grin spread over

  her face like margarine on burnt toast, and he

  stared back, looking unsettled and nervous, like he

  was waiting for something to happen and wasn’t

  sure it would. They stared at each other a good ten

  seconds past the comfortable point as Audra

  racked her brain, trying to think of just one of the

  clever lines she’d practiced all night—just one fa-

  mous movie quip or quote to fill the space—but

  42

  Karyn Langhorne

  now that he was standing right in front of her, it

  was as if she’d never seen a movie in her life. But it