Kindness for Weakness

by Shawn Goodman

  “Sorry, mister.” Wilfred lowers his head, ashamed. Or angry. It’s impossible to tell the difference, except that when he’s angry, he curses quietly, under his breath, and makes threats. And when he’s really angry, he throws his giant shovel hands into the air until the guards restrain him. As long as I’ve been here, though, he hasn’t actually hit anyone; it’s more like when a little kid has a tantrum.

  “It’s okay,” Ms. Bonetta says. “It’s not that kind of a surprise, Wilfred.” She pauses to build the suspense. Even Crupier looks interested; he closes his copy of Traditional Bow Hunter magazine and looks up at the pretty teacher.

  “One of you boys has just been accepted into community college!” She claps her hands a couple of times and waits for our reaction.

  But everyone knows it’s Freddie. Wilfred and Kyle wave their hands away to show that they couldn’t care less. Even Freddie tries to downplay it by saying, “It ain’t a real acceptance, because it’s just community college; all you have to do is apply.”

  Ms. Bonetta puts her hands on her hips. “It is a big deal. It is an accomplishment, Freddie, because you worked hard to get this far. Isn’t that right, Mr. Crupier?”

  The guard looks like he’s been slapped awake. “Yeah,” he says mechanically. “Absolutely. Nice job, Peach.” Then he grins stupidly at the teacher, like he expects a reward for talking nice to a poor troubled kid.

  “If life is hard,” Ms. Bonetta says to the rest of us, “and we don’t celebrate the small accomplishments, what’s left?”

  We all nod like it’s the most important thing we’ve ever heard, but really it’s just because she is so beautiful and kind. Her dark wavy hair shines. Her teeth gleam. And even though she dresses professionally and wears buttoned-up sweaters over everything, it is clear that she has an awesome body. Even Bobby, who hates school with a fury, sits up straight, listening attentively like an A student.

  I wonder how the waitress from Rusty’s or the girl who blew me a kiss would look in a black dress like Ms. Bonetta’s. Probably really good, but not so classy and elegant. That would be fine with me, though, because I’d kind of prefer a real girl as opposed to a super classy one like Ms. Bonetta. Someone who is happy going to the movies or for pizza instead of to parties and dances. And it would be great if she liked to read and we could sit by the river and talk about books and movies and stuff. Not that any of this is going to happen. But it’s nice to dream.

  “So today,” she says, “we are all going to celebrate Freddie’s success.”

  She lifts two paper grocery bags onto her desk and starts to pour soda into paper cups. Then she passes around little Halloween-sized M&M’s bags and Snickers bars. Wilfred and Kyle say “Good job” to Freddie, but most everyone else sits quietly, eating. Crupier, too, sits in the back of the classroom, pushing M&M’s into his mouth, looking hungrily at Ms. Bonetta in her black dress and heels.

  55

  In the morning Freddie and I are scheduled for showers. Pike unlocks all of the bedroom doors. “Morning, ladies,” he says. “Showers in five. Get moving!”

  Our small wire baskets hold soap, shampoo, and shaving items, but Freddie’s is loaded up with all that he just bought at the commissary, things that only kids with privileges can have: lotion, conditioner, hair gel. We’re halfway across the unit floor when Horvath stops us and says, “Wait a minute, Freddie. What’s with all the extra stuff?”

  “I bought it at the commissary. I got my stage. You can check—I ain’t lying.”

  He scans the unit log for the entry. When he finds it, he slams the book shut and shoves it across the desk.

  “Don’t get too comfortable,” he says. “ ’Cause I’ll be talking to Eboue about this.”

  Freddie’s smile turns to a scowl.

  “Go on,” Horvath says. “Might as well enjoy them privileges for one day.”

  Freddie storms across the unit, taking these giant angry steps; his robe flaps open, and he has to reach around to cinch it back into place.

  “Stop!” says Horvath.

  Freddie stands in his thin blue robe, looking down at his toes. I know what is going through his mind: if Horvath writes him up for this, his release will get pulled and he’ll miss community college.

  “The tie on my robe’s busted,” says Freddie. “I put in a request for a new one.”

  “Save it, Freddie. Nobody in here wants to see your junk, except for maybe James.”

  Pike snickers, along with several boys who have come out of their rooms to see what’s happening. Ordinarily, guards would send them back to their bedrooms, but today it suits them to have an audience. This way, if they write Freddie up and take away his privileges, there will be plenty of witnesses to back them up.

  “It ain’t my fault, Mr. Horvath. I swear!” says Freddie.

  “It’s your job to keep yourself covered up; nobody else’s. You know the rules.”

  “But I’ll lose my stage. I’ll miss college!”

  “You want some cheese with your whine? You ain’t going to college anyway. Who are you trying to fool?”

  “Yeah,” adds Pike. “Maybe you should have thought of all that before you flashed your pussy to everyone.”

  Horvath laughs out loud at the joke. Freddie clutches his robe tighter while he fights to keep himself under control.

  “Get moving, Peach,” says Pike. “This conversation is over.”

  But Freddie doesn’t move, and the only sound is the big clock ticking away on the far wall. The rest of the boys stand outside their doors, watching. They’d like to get closer, but there is the risk of the guards turning on them, saying, “Get back to your rooms! Mind your own business!” Then they will miss all the action.

  Freddie breathes deep and says, “I don’t have a pussy.” He says it loud and clear, like it’s a declaration, like it means more than what they’re talking about at the moment.

  “What?” Horvath is puffing up, getting big and red-faced. “Are you talking back, fruit?”

  “I said I don’t have a pussy, and I’m more of a man than you are.”

  “Hah!” Horvath grabs his balls and says, “A real man has these; what you got is a pussy.”

  Freddie’s eyes blaze, and his nostrils flare. “Say some more shit,” he says slowly, calmly, the words measured out like volatile things that might catch fire or blow up. “And see how bad I kick your fat stupid redneck ass!”

  Our mouths hang open in disbelief. Wilfred, smiling, his face lit up, says, “Oh, no he didn’t!”

  Horvath and Pike look at each other, surprised that someone like Freddie would challenge one of them directly. But they are happy, too, because now they have a reason to drop him. They fan out, getting ready for action. But since the riot, they’re not taking chances; slowly Pike slides his hand down for his radio and pushes his pin.

  “Response Team A to Bravo Unit,” the radio says.

  “Keep talking, Freddie,” says Horvath. “They’re gonna love you at Penfield.”

  But Freddie is done talking, and whatever fight was in him is gone. He knows that, any minute, a troop of guards will come in and take him to one of the small rooms in medical. They’ll drop him over and over again. And later he will get written up and will lose his stage. His release will be pulled, and then he will miss college. Freddie lowers his head and shoulders in defeat as the sound of heavy black boots echoes from the hallway.

  56

  I wonder if Freddie is gone for good, like Antwon, Coty, Levon, and Double X. Even if they let him come back to Bravo, he might be all lumpy and beat-up. He might have a broken arm or really bad rug burns on his face. And even if they don’t hurt him too badly, he might be broken in other ways, as in being hopeless or defeated.

  But at midnight, I hear movement outside Freddie’s door. Keys jingle, and a lock clicks open. “Get in there,” says one of the guards. I hear the shuffle of Freddie’s footsteps; the door closes and locks behind him.

  “Freddie?” I knock three times on the hea
ter vent to get his attention.

  Nothing.

  “You okay?” I speak louder, but he still doesn’t answer.

  At wake-up Crupier unlocks my door first, and then Freddie’s. “Come on, Peach,” he says. “It’s a new day. Time to man up and fly right.”

  It takes Freddie several minutes to come out of his room. And when he does, he has a strange look in his eyes, like he’s afraid and not afraid at the same time. It’s like he can’t decide if he should cower in front of the guard or smash his head in with something heavy. Honestly, he looks crazy.

  He says nothing throughout breakfast, and eats his waffles and Frosted Flakes separately, just like everyone else. Later, in class, he refuses to do any work; instead he stares at Horvath until someone tells him to turn and face the front of the classroom. Even then, he does it only for a minute or two—then he goes back to staring.

  Horvath stares right back. “All day long, Peach,” he growls. “We can do this all day long.”

  At lunch I ask Freddie what the hell he’s doing, but he says, “I got my plan. You’ll see.” Other than that, he does nothing in school and sleeps when he’s not forced to participate. He has also stopped taking care of his hair, which is wild and uneven.

  It’s not until the very end of the day, after lights-out, that he knocks on the heater vent. “James,” he says, barely loud enough to hear.

  “Yeah?”

  “They took me to the tune-up room.”

  I lean back against the heater panel. I’m listening, but I don’t want to listen. I want to plug my ears and shout, “Shut up! Shut the fuck up, Freddie!” Because I am tired of this place and I don’t want to hear it anymore. I want to go home and never think of Morton again. I want to go back to my mother’s crappy couch. I want to go back to school, where I am invisible, except for the lacrosse kids who mess with me in the hallways, which I don’t care about anymore because I’ve learned how to stand up for myself. But don’t tell me about the stuff I can’t do anything about, like Bobby’s broken arm, Oskar’s suicide, and what happened to Samson.

  “You want to know what they did?”

  “Okay,” I lie.

  “They restrained me over and over again.”

  “Oh,” I say, stupidly.

  “They’d pick me up and ask me did I want to go back to the unit? And I’d cry and say, ‘Yes! Please, yes!’ Then they’d drop me again. And again.”

  I can hear him crying.

  “I peed myself, James. I peed in my fucking pants, I was so scared. I thought they was going to kill me.”

  “I’m sorry, Freddie.”

  After he gets control of himself, he says, “If something happens to me in here—”

  But I cut him off. “You’re crazy,” I say. “Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

  “Don’t lie, James,” he says. “Don’t you lie to me.”

  “Okay.” I don’t know what to say to make him feel better.

  “Just promise me something. Promise you’ll find my mother and tell her I’m sorry.” He’s talking fast now. “Her name’s Gwendolyn Peach. She lives in Harlem, in the East River projects. You got to call her and explain things. Tell her I’m sorry for being the way that I am. Tell her I didn’t mean to cause her no grief.”

  “Okay, I promise. If anything happens, I’ll find her.”

  The radiator goes quiet. I lie awake for a long time thinking about Freddie and his mother. I say a silent prayer that he will find his way home.

  57

  It’s Friday, which is Stage Night, but no one on the unit has privileges. We’ve been on restriction since the riot, and no one knows when it might end. Instead of playing Ping-Pong or cards, we sit in the dayroom flipping through magazines and doing homework. I look around at the empty seats, seats that used to belong to Oskar, Tony, Antwon, Coty, Levon, and Double X. In my head I catalog where they might be. Oskar I know is dead. Mr. E said that Tony, Levon, and Antwon are at Penfield, and I don’t know where Coty and Double X are—maybe in a different facility, or in jail.

  As for Samson, I try not to think about him. I want to ask Mr. E if he’s okay, but I am afraid of the answer. Also, Mr. E is different now, quiet and not as friendly. He did shake my hand and thank me for trying to help him, though. “You stood up for me, James,” he said. “I won’t ever forget that.”

  Freddie sits at the next desk over, hands resting on top of a black marbled composition book. His hair is wild and clumpy. The lines of his face are drawn downward with the weight of what has happened to him. He talks little, and when he does, it is only about his “plan.”

  “You okay, Freddie?” I say when the guards go into the staff office to eat the order of subs and wings and Cokes that just arrived from Central Services.

  “No, I ain’t okay. But I’m gonna be, after I get Horvath and Pike.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “You’ll see,” he says after a moment. “Take this letter and read it.” He takes a folded sheet from his notebook and slides it over to me.

  “Okay.”

  “You got to put it in Pike’s mail slot in the staff office. I can’t do it, ’cause they don’t let me in there now.”

  “I don’t know, Freddie. It sounds like a bad idea.”

  “So what? Just do this for me, and I’ll never ask you for nothing again.”

  “Are you sure?” I don’t know what’s in the letter, but it can’t be good.

  “I’m sure. I been working hard to get it right. You know, matching Horvath’s writing, the way rednecks talk. You’ll see.” He laughs, but it’s a sick laugh, a little wheezy, like Pike’s. “Trust me; you won’t believe I wrote it.”

  “I still think you shouldn’t.”

  “James, I been taking shit from people my whole life. Everybody treats me like a fucking joke. My own parents don’t want me. Even the gay boys don’t want me. They say shit about my clothes, call me a fat, dumpy-ass Negro with no style.”

  “Is that why you stole the suit?”

  “See, you smart, James. You sit and watch everyone, and you know stuff without having to run your mouth. I’m always running my mouth, which gets my release took away and a bunch of knots in my head.”

  “It was pretty good, though, what you said to Horvath.”

  Freddie surprises me with a smile. “Yeah, it was pretty good.” Then his voice changes, gets deeper, serious. “I’m not taking no more shit, James,” he says. “I want to stand up and say, ‘This is who I am, motherfuckers. What you gonna do about it?’ ”

  “I know what they’re going to do about it,” I say.

  “Then that’s their business. But I still have to stand up for Freddie Peach.”

  I nod.

  “ ’Cause if I don’t, who else will?”

  He walks away with his composition book, and I tuck the letter under my arm so the guards won’t notice. Later, in the safety of my bedroom, I carefully open it and spread it out on my bed. In small blocky print, it says:

  To Byron Pike:

  Byron, it’s me, Roy. Horvath. I’m taking a risk writing this letter, but I think it’s okay—it’s illegal to look in someone else’s mailbox, and I also know you’d never say nothing to no one because, well, that’s how you are—loyal and real decent. So here goes. I watched that movie everyone’s been joking about, Brokeback Mountain, about them cowboys who are queer but also tough and regular guys. Well, Bryon, that movie got me thinking about your strong face and that bristly red beard, and how maybe there ain’t nothing wrong with that, even though I still hate queers, the way they lisp and dress all flashy and stupid. But that’s different. I’m talking about two regular guys doing regular guy stuff together, like hunting and watching the races over at Watkins Glen. And we could take trips on my Harley. You could ride bitch until you get your own bike, but you should know that I’d never call you my bitch, because it’s not like that. I think of you with lots of respect. Anyway, tell me what you think. We can pound some beers at the Summit Lo
dge later and talk about it.

  I read it three times, laughing out loud, imagining how Pike would react and how much of an absolute shit storm would erupt if anyone else saw it. I call out to Freddie through the heater vent, telling him that it’s hilarious.

  But all that comes back is, “It ain’t no joke. It’s payback.” And then he adds, “Keep your promise, James, if you’re my friend.”

  I’m pretty sure a real friend would tear up that letter. It’s what Louis would do, but only because it might bring trouble for him. But then Freddie says, “Are you still my friend, James?”

  “Yeah,” I say with a mix of sadness and pride. “I’m still your friend.”

  58

  I carry Freddie’s letter with me tucked in the folder of my school binder. Every time he sees me he asks, “Did you do it?”

  “No,” I say. “Haven’t had the chance yet.”

  “Keep trying. And don’t chicken out on me, James. I’m serious about this, and you promised!”

  “Shut up,” I say, because I don’t even want to do it. Because it’s too dangerous. Because I’m afraid of getting caught with Freddie’s letter. I might pretend that I’m worried about my friend, but it’s more selfish than that; if I get caught, I’ll never get out of here. And if I do it, I’ll be setting up something terrible for Freddie.

  I can almost hear the voice of Tony telling me to let Freddie handle his own business. Louis would tell me the same thing. Wolf Larsen, too. There’s even a line in the book where he says, “I do wrong always when I consider the interests of others. Don’t you see?” Honestly, I don’t know what to do, and I can’t ask Samson, because he’s still hurt. And Mr. Pfeffer is in Dunkirk, a couple hundred miles away.

  But in the evening, the perfect opportunity comes. Horvath has gone to Central Services to pick up their take-out order from the sub shop, and Crupier is running chores and showers.