Love, Heather-Mary...

Each day as I walk through the door to our apartment, I love hearing Heather-Mary's squeals of excitement. It's not me she's happy to see but the pile of mail I hold in my hands. "Heather-Mary Herman? Is there a Heather-Mary Herman in the house?" Sticking her head out her bedroom door, her face flush with anticipation, she cries, "I'm Heather-Mary Herman!"

Fingering through the mail, I say in my best mailman voice, "I think I have something for you, young lady. You sure are popular with the boys." "Love letters," she sighs. Barely able to contain herself, Heather-Mary jumps onto her bed, letter opener in hand and eagerly waits. Yes, I know it's silly, this ritual we play each day, but she enjoys it. These letters, no matter who they're from are her connection, the one thing in this world that makes her feel a part, so gladly I play along. The cat, Mr. Jingle Maryweather, or as I call him, Cat, wants no part of it. As he leaves the room in disgust, he mutters under his breath words I haven't learned yet in class, but you don't have to be fluent in French to know he thinks we are both nuts.

As I toss each letter to Heather-Mary, she takes them and carefully arranges them on her bed. They surround her, a crowd of love starved fans. She looks at each hand-written note, smiling, touching one and then another, picking up one, change of mind, then picking up another. "Which one to choose, which one to choose?" Like watching a child on Christmas morning, not knowing which present to open first. Finally, she makes her pick and with her grandparents antique elephant tusk letter opener, she delicately opens the first letter.

"Sincerely, John Redman," the letter closes. As she smiles, lingering in the memory of his sweet words, I find Mr. Redman's formality sourly odd. His new found politeness, perhaps a recent trait picked up on the yard at Bolivar County Correctional Facility. I wonder to myself if the 10 year old girl he kidnapped got to see this mannered side. From all reports, I believe not, but before I can ask the question, Heather-Mary is on to the next.

Everett Stokes - High School teacher, former college football star currently serving life for armed robbery and attempted murder at Sussex 1 State Prison in Virginia. "Attempted murder," with the emphasis on attempted she offers up, eyes never leaving the page, "it's a completely different ballgame." Heather-Mary does have her standards.

On and on, letter after letter, prisoner after prisoner - Philip Dangy, Cole Mustgrove, Casey Collings - drug dealer, rapist, car thief. From Maine to California, Heather-Mary is on a first name basis with what seems to be half the population of men in the United States Penal System...and couldn't be more happy for the attention. I wonder if these men have any idea the woman writing them is every bit as much a prisoner as are they. How could they, for as many men in this deep pool of pen-pals, there are as many versions of Heather-Mary, and not one of them live on the Lower East Side of New York, trapped in a 8 by 10 ft bedroom, eating everything under the sun. Heather-Mary is blond and a red head, with longish straight curly hair. Her height ranges for 5ft 3 - Philip Dangy likes 'em little, to 6ft 1. She's been a cheerleader, a stay at home mom, an 18 year old girl, straight off the bus from Nebraska to a confused 13 year old boy. What ever these men want, what ever they are looking for or desire, Heather-Mary figures it out and gives it to them. "What's the big deal," she says. "I love getting letters and I make them feel good. It makes me feel good, besides, I'm never gonna see any of these guys."

I wonder how much it costs to rent a mailbox at the Post Office. I think tomorrow I'm going to find out.