Sleepers (30 page)

“You’re a good teacher, Mr. Carlson,” I said. “You’re just stuck with a bad bunch.”

“I can’t imagine being locked in here,” Carlson said. “For one night, let alone months.”

“I can’t imagine it either,” I said.

“It’s not what I thought it would be like,” Carlson said with a slow shake of his head.

“I don’t think it’s what
anybody
thought it would be,” I said.

“No, I suppose not,” Carlson said.

“Listen, I’ve got to run,” I said. “Thank you again for the book. It means a lot.”

“Will the guards let you keep it?” Carlson asked.

“They won’t know I’ve got it,” I told him.

“We can discuss the book in class on Friday,” Carlson said. “That’s if you think the Count can hold their attention.”

“He’s got a shot,” I smiled.

“Any special section I should read from?” Carlson asked, snapping his leather bag shut.

“That’s easy,” I said, moving toward the door, book in my hand. “The part when he escapes from prison.”

12

I
T WAS MY
first time inside the guards’ quarters, a series of lockers, couches, bunks, shower stalls, soda machines, and coffeemakers spread through four large rooms at the back end of C block. The rooms smelled of old clothes and damp tile and the floors were dusty and stained, cigarette butts scattered in the corners. Floor lamps, covers torn and smeared, cast small circles of light, keeping the quarters in a state of semidarkness. Dirty clothes were tossed on the floor and on the furniture. A large framed photo of the Wilkinson Home for Boys, taken during a snowbound winter many years earlier, hung in the main room.

Nokes sat behind a desk, its top cluttered with memos, open binders, a tape recorder, two phones, a handful of magazines, and open packs of cigarettes. A thick toaster-size cardboard box, its center slit open, rested in the middle.

“You asked to see me?”
I
said, standing in front of him.

“Hang on a second, soldier,” Nokes said. “I wanna get the other guys for this.”

Nokes lifted the phone off its cradle and pressed a yellow intercom button.

“Get off your asses,” he shouted into the speaker. “He’s here.”

Addison, Styler, and Ferguson walked in from a side room, each in various stages of undress. Ferguson had shaving cream along his face and neck, a straight razor
in his hands. Styler, naked except for a pair of white briefs, was smoking a cigar with a plastic tip. Addison held a folded paper in one hand and a slice of pepperoni pizza in the other.

They stood behind Nokes, their attention more on the box than on me.

“You know the rules about mail?” Nokes asked, looking up at me, an unlit cigarette clenched between his teeth. “About what you can get and what you can’t?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I know them.”

“You can’t know ’em too fuckin’ well,” Nokes said, a finger pointing to the open box. “Havin’ your mother send all this shit.”

“That box’s from my mother?” I asked.

“I mean, look at this shit,” Nokes said to the three guards surrounding him, ignoring my question. “Where the fuck she think her son is at, the army?”

“What the fuck is this?” Styler asked, his hand pulling out a small jar filled with roasted peppers in olive oil.

“The warden is supposed to clear the mail,” I said. “Not the guards.”

“Well, the warden ain’t around,” Nokes said. “And when he ain’t around, we clear it.”

“None of the shit I see would get past the warden,” Styler said. “Ain’t none of it on the approved list.”

“I’m sure your mama got a copy of that list,” Addison said. “It gets sent to all the parents.”

“My mother doesn’t read English,” I said.

“Don’t blame us for her being stupid,” Nokes said, tossing a jar of artichoke hearts to Styler.

“Those are things she made,” I said. “Things she knows I like. She didn’t look to do anything wrong.”

“Other than have a jackoff for a son,” Styler said, opening the jar and putting it to his nose.

“Can I have the box?” I asked. “Please?”

“Sure,” Nokes said. “The box is yours. What’s in it is ours. That seem fair?”

“Is there anything in there other than food?” I asked, my hands bunched in fists by my sides.

“Just this.” Nokes held up a brown set of rosary beads. “Mean anything to you?”

“More than they would mean to you,” I said.

“Suppose you’d like to have them, then?” Styler said, his mouth filled with artichoke hearts.

“They belong to me,” I told him.

“What do you do with these things?” Nokes asked, fingering the rosary beads in his hand.

“You pray,” I said.

“Fuckin’ losers like you ain’t got a prayer,” Styler said.

“Take the food, Nokes,” I said. “All of it. Just let me have the beads.”

Styler walked around the desk and came up alongside me, one of his arms around my shoulders.

“You gonna let us hear you pray?” he asked me.

“I like to do it alone,” I said, my eyes still on Nokes. “It works better that way.”

“Like jerkin’ off,” Addison said.

“Just this once,” Styler said, smiling and winking at the other three. “Let us hear you.”

“Maybe he needs something to pray about,” Nokes said, reaching a hand under the desk, coming up with a black baton.

He gave the baton to Styler, who took it with his free hand, pushing me closer to his side.

“Put your hands on the desk,” Styler said to me. “Lay them down flat.”

“And start thinkin’ up some prayers,” Addison said.

My hands were inches from the box my mother had sent. Styler spread my legs apart and pushed down my pants, tearing off the top button with the force of his effort. Nokes laid the brown rosary beads across both sets
of my knuckles. I felt Styler’s hands rub against the base of my back, his skin coarse, his manner rough.

“Remember, fucker,” Nokes said, eating my mother’s peppers with his hands. “We want to hear you pray. Loud!”

Styler put an arm around my stomach and slid the front end of the baton inside me. The pain came in a rush, leg muscles cramping, chest heaving, stomach tied in a knifelike nerve of knots.

“We can’t hear no prayers,” Nokes said.

“You better start.” Ferguson had a terrible smile on his face. “Before Styler there loses his baton up your ass.”

“‘Our Father,’” I said, my lips barely moving, my breath short, my lungs on fire. “‘Who art in heaven.’”

“Nice and loud,” Styler said from behind me. “Pray nice and loud.”

“‘Hallowed be thy name,’” I said, tears falling down the sides of my face. “‘Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done.’”

“Don’t say come in front of Styler,” Nokes said with a loud laugh. “You don’t wanna get him excited.”

“‘On earth as it is in heaven,’” I said, my legs starting to buckle, my body damp with cold sweat. “‘And forgive us our trespasses …’”

“That part must be about us,” Addison said, his eyes wide, his tongue licking at his lips.

“‘As we forgive those,’” I said, my hands starting to slide off the desk, knuckles still gripping the rosary beads. “‘Who trespass against us.’”

“Louder, fucker!” Nokes said, standing now, holding my face with two hands. “Make like you’re in a fuckin’ church.”

“‘And lead us not into temptation,’” I said, the room around me a shifting blur, my arms and legs empty of feeling. “‘But deliver us from evil.’”

“Too fuckin’ late for that now, loser,” Styler said as
he released me and let my body crumple to the floor. “Too fuckin’ late.”

I
WOKE UP
in my cell, on my cot, my pants still wrapped around my knees. I was shivering, sheet and blanket under me, my body numb to movement. The rosary beads were still in my hand, the cross wedged into my palm. I brought the beads to my lips slowly, and kissed them.

I opened my eyes, looked out into the darkness, and cried till the sun came up.

Spring 1968

13

M
ICHAEL HIT THE
handball against the cement wall, watching it one-bounce its way toward John, who waited for it near the middle of the white divider line. I played off the back line, alongside Tommy, my mind more on the weather than on the game.

It was early afternoon and warm for a mid-April day. The sun was still strong, scattered rays bouncing off the hardened tar floor and onto our arms, legs, and faces. The air was dry, humidity low, soft breeze blowing at our backs.

The handball court was seldom free: the black inmates had co-opted the area as part of their domain. But, for now, they were out of the picture, joined together in organized protest, a reflection of their outrage over the murder earlier in the month of Martin Luther King, Jr. They stayed in their cells and refused to
engage in any prison activity, insisting that even meals be brought to them. Initially, the guards reacted as expected, with intimidation and force, but the inmates held firm, anger and pride keeping the rules of the prison at bay. The warden, fearing outside attention, ordered the guards to back off and allow the protest to flame itself out.

The ball came in a dark blur toward Tommy, who took two quick steps back, balanced his weight, swung his hand, and missed. He turned around, picked up the ball, and tossed it back to Michael.

“I don’t get this game,” Tommy said. “I don’t understand it at all.”

“That makes me
really
glad you’re on my team,” I said.

“What’s the point?” Tommy asked.

“We don’t
have
any points,” I said. “Michael and John, they have all the points. Go ask them.”

“It’s six to nothing,” Michael said, walking toward me, bouncing the ball against the tar, his right hand wrapped in heavy black adhesive tape. “You wanna switch sides?”

“How about we take a break?” I said. “I’m not used to getting this much sun.”

“There ain’t much shade around here,” Michael said.

“Let’s go near the trees,” I said. “The guards can still see us from there and it’s gotta be cooler.”

We walked past the wall, wiping sweat from our faces and arms, toward a small chestnut tree with drooping limbs, the duty guard following us with his eyes.

We sat around the tree, our arms spread behind us, legs rubbing against grass, staring out at the square-shaped brick façade of C block, our home these past seven months.

“Nice view,” John said.

“Just looks like any other place from here,” Tommy said. “It don’t look like what it is.”

“I’ll never forget what it looks like,” I said. “Or what it is.”

“You might,” Michael said. “If you’re lucky.”

“They give you your release date yet?” Tommy asked me.

“Nokes had the letter from the warden,” I said. “He waved it in front of me. Then he tore it up.”

“When do you figure?” Michael asked.

“End of June,” I said. “Maybe early July. Something like that.”

“I wish we were goin’ with you,” John said, his voice crammed with sadness. “Woulda been nice for us to all walk out together.”

“I wish you were too,” I said, smiling over at him.

“No use thinking about it,” Michael said. “We’re gonna do a full year. Not an hour less.”

“I could talk to Father Bobby after I get out,” I said. “Maybe he could make some calls, shave a month or two off.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” John said.

“There’s
lots
to talk about, Johnny,” I said. “Maybe if people knew what goes on in here, they’d make a move.”

“I don’t
want
anybody to know, Shakes,” John said, the center of his eyes filling with tears. “Not Father Bobby or King Benny or Fat Mancho. Not my mother. Not anybody.”

“I don’t either,” Tommy said. “I wouldn’t know what to say to anybody that
did
know.”

“What about you?” I asked, turning my head toward Michael. “You gonna stay quiet?”

“I can’t think of anybody who needs to hear about it,” Michael said. “Guys did time in this place or places like it, they know what went on. Those who didn’t
won’t believe it or won’t give a shit. Either way, it’s nothin’ but a waste of time.”

“I don’t even think
we
should talk about it,” John said. “Once it’s over.”

“I want it buried too, Shakes,” Tommy said. “I want it buried as deep as it can go.”

“We’ve got to live with it,” Michael said. “And talking makes living it harder.”

“People might ask,” I said.

“Let ’em,” Michael said, standing up, brushing loose grass off the back of his sweats. “Let ’em ask, let ’em think. But the truth stays with us.”

“Just be glad you’re going home, Shakes,” John said. “Forget everything else.”

“And try to stay out of trouble till we get back,” Michael said.

“That should be easy,” I said. “Without you guys around.”

“What’s the first thing you’re gonna do when you get back?” John asked.

“Go to the library,” I said. “Sit there for as long as I want. Look through any book I want. Not have to get up when somebody blows a whistle. Just sit there and listen to the quiet.”

“Know what I miss the most?” Tommy asked in a sad tone, his face up to the sun, his eyes closed.