Kindness for Weakness

by Shawn Goodman

  “Wilfred and James,” he calls out. “Clean the staff office. And do a good job; I want one of you to dust and then use the spray; the other one vacuums.”

  Wilfred goes to the slop closet to get the vacuum while I duck into my room to get the letter from my binder, which is on my desk. I fold it four times quickly and stick it into the waistband of my khakis.

  “James!” Crupier says.

  I duck out of the room. “Yes?”

  “I didn’t tell you to go into your room; I told you to clean the staff office.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go ahead, then.”

  And I do it. Over the noise of Wilfred running the vacuum and singing his stupid rap songs that don’t even rhyme, I put the letter inside my cleaning rag and slip it into Pike’s mail slot without anyone noticing. There are butterflies in my stomach, and I feel strangely elated, like I’ve just set something in motion that can’t be stopped. It is a powerful feeling, and I wonder if it’s how Wolf Larsen felt when he drove his ship, the Ghost, into a squall, knowing that the sails would be ripped to shreds and the men swept into the sea to drown.

  Is this how it feels to destroy something? To start something powerful and destructive, and then sit back and watch it explode? I clean the rest of the office and then go to bed. I’m too nervous to sleep, but I don’t want to do any more push-ups or squats. At least not until Samson comes back, if he ever does. I lie on top of my covers and throw a balled-up pair of socks at the ceiling and count how many times in a row I can catch it. I’m up to fifty-seven when Freddie raps on the heater.

  “I’m up,” I say.

  “Did you do it? When you was cleaning the staff office with Wilfred?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “For real? Don’t lie to me, James. Please don’t tell me no lies.”

  “I’m not lying. I did it.”

  “Good,” he says. “What do you think Pike will do? When he finds it?”

  “I think they’re going to live out the gay redneck dream. You know, taking trips on Horvath’s Harley, drinking beer at NASCAR races. Can’t you see it?”

  “Hell, no! Them two got no style and they talk like retarded farmers. They think corn dogs is fine cuisine.”

  “And they have more hair on the back of their necks than on their heads,” I add.

  “That’s right,” Freddie says. “So they ain’t allowed in the club.”

  We laugh and joke about the ridiculousness of it. It feels good to have the old Freddie, my friend, back. But there’s a part of me that feels like I’m talking to a dead man, or a ghost, because soon enough Pike will start his shift and find that letter. And then more bad things will happen. Then again, maybe he won’t find it. Maybe it will get lost, or he will think it’s a bad joke from one of the other guards. He could just throw it away and never say anything.

  But I know that deep down I am fooling myself; neither Freddie nor I have that kind of luck. For us, the shit storm is right around the corner, and the only question is, How long? Will Pike find the letter at the beginning of the shift, or after? And will it take minutes, hours, or days for him to trace it back to Freddie and me? It doesn’t really matter, I guess. Just like it didn’t matter for Van Weyden when he finally realized he was on a hell ship and everyone was going to die.

  59

  In the morning it is quiet except for the ticking of the big wall clock outside my door. It’s half an hour before the end of Pike and Horvath’s first shift (they’re doing a double: eleven to seven followed by seven to three), and nothing bad has happened. The electric locks retract. Pike opens our doors with his usual brisk efficiency and trademark comments.

  “Good morning, ladies,” he says. “Time for hygiene. Chow line’s in forty-five, so get the fuck up and fly right!”

  After hygiene, we get in line behind Horvath, who is washing down a sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit from McDonald’s with a swig from his giant coffee mug. We stand quiet, rubbing the sleep out of our eyes just like we’d do on ordinary school days, days when there isn’t a forged letter sitting in Pike’s mail slot in the staff office. I wish it could be one of those days.

  In the cafeteria Freddie is all smiles and jokes. He bobs his head like he’s grooving to music only he can hear.

  “What the hell are you doing, Peach?” Pike says.

  I give him the eye to make sure he won’t say anything stupid, but he ignores me, grinning even more broadly.

  “Just enjoyin’ my breakfast, Mr. Pike,” he says. “It’s delicious.”

  “Well, cut that shit out!” Horvath says. “Just eat your food.”

  Freddie nods and crams the rest of his breakfast burrito into his mouth.

  Wilfred touches his own chin and says, “You got salsa on your face.”

  “Oh, yeah? Well, lemme tell you something, Wilfred. Shit’s going down today. I can feel it.”

  “What are you talking about?” Wilfred says.

  “I’m just saying I got a feeling that shit’s going down today, and when it do, nobody gonna care about no sauce on my chin.”

  Wilfred gives a short nervous laugh like he does when he’s not quite following the conversation. “Whatever,” he says. “Just so long as it don’t involve me, ’cause I got, like, six good days behind me. I’m gonna get my stage.”

  Freddie winks at me because it’s funny how Wilfred is always “gonna get his stage.” For ten months he’s been counting his good days, only to blow it over something stupid like stealing extra desserts at dinner, or writing gang signs on his school desk.

  “That’s good,” Freddie says. “And don’t worry, Wilfred; it won’t involve none of y’all. It might even be fun to watch.”

  Wilfred smiles.

  60

  All day I watch the clocks for the end of Horvath and Pike’s last shift, which is at three o’clock sharp. At one-thirty, I am cautiously optimistic. At two, I’m hopeful. And by two-forty-five I am overflowing with relief because Crupier is coming in to get ready for the switch; he throws down his duffel bag and then leaves, probably to get a coffee or something from one of the vending machines in the break room.

  A loud noise from the staff office stops my heart, but it’s just Horvath’s big deep laugh. Laughing is a good sign. Everything is still okay.

  Freddie is watching, too, but I know he’s hoping for a different outcome. He wants to see everything explode, like when Tony picked a fight with Levon. Or when Antwon and Coty and Double X attacked Mr. E and Samson. I try to think of a future for myself in which things don’t explode. Could it be that I will walk out of here one day soon and go home? It’s possible, but I haven’t heard or seen from Louis in weeks, and there’s almost no chance of my mother’s apartment passing a home inspection. Mr. Eboue talked to me about it; even if Ron isn’t around to mess things up, state law says that there has to be a separate bedroom for me—and there isn’t.

  Another loud noise from the staff office, but this time it’s not laughter.

  “I didn’t write it,” says Horvath.

  “Then who the fuck wrote it?” says Pike.

  Oh, shit, I think. They got the letter.

  “I … I don’t fucking know, Byron!”

  The two guards move into the dayroom, shouting at each other. They shake fists and roll their heads at the ceiling because they think the letter is real. Their stupid redneck world has just been turned upside down, and I have to appreciate the genius of Freddie’s plan. He hit them where it would hurt most—their masculinity. They’re glaring at each other now like the lunatics on reality shows who are only one step away from choking the shit out of each other.

  Horvath roars, “You think … you think that I’m …?”

  “I don’t fucking know what to think, Roy!”

  And then Freddie does his thing, what he’s been waiting to do for so long: he lights the fuse. He stands up, slowly extending his arm in front of him. He points his index finger at the two guards and says, “Hah!” It comes out like a st
atement or an accusation. But then he says it again, differently, like all he’s doing now is laughing at something funny. “Hah! Hoo-hah!”

  Horvath takes a step toward him, confused, but also dangerous.

  He says, “The fuck are you laughing at, Peach?”

  “You,” Freddie says, dropping the loaded, pointed finger. His smile is gone. He looks serious, not at all like the happy funny Freddie I’ve known since I came to Morton. But there’s something else that’s different about him—I just can’t pinpoint it.

  Horvath takes two more steps on his big tree-trunk legs. “Why are you laughing at me, fruit?” he says. “Tell me.”

  Everyone in the room is watching, waiting for Freddie’s answer, and I know what’s different about him. Freddie has become a man. He is making his stand, just like he said he was going to do. He is becoming strong. I don’t know how long it will last, but for the moment, Freddie Peach owns Bravo Unit. I watch like the other boys, openmouthed, awestruck.

  Slowly, in clear measured tones, he says, “Watching you and your boyfriend have an argument is funny.”

  I can almost see the gears turning in the broken machinery of Horvath’s mind. His eyes turn black and cloudy at the same time, like the sky on the cover of my paperback, a sky that threatens to rain down and smash anything underneath it. I know that we’re not on a ship and there is no water around us, but I can’t help wonder how long before my friend is cast into the sea.

  61

  There’s a terrible moment when Horvath and Freddie face each other, seething hate. Horvath breathes deep, his massive chest expanding until finally, all at once, he expels the air and slams down on Freddie’s shoulders with both hands. Freddie flies backward and crashes onto a desk that’s covered with homework papers, and the big, heavy staff logbook.

  Horvath stands his ground, nostrils flaring like a bull. He says, “You weak faggot sack of shit.”

  Freddie picks himself off the desk. He notices the logbook, raises it above his head, and hurls it. Horvath sees it coming and ducks, the book sailing past him, thudding against a wall. But it is enough of a distraction that Horvath fails to notice Freddie take a small step forward, planting his weight solidly on his left foot like a boxer ready to jab. Nor does he see Freddie’s right foot draw back so far that we can all see the waffled pattern on the sole of his fake Chuck Taylor shoe. By the time Horvath knows it, Freddie is driving the shoe as hard as he can square into the big guard’s balls.

  Horvath lets out a single grunt and drops hard to the floor. He lies on his side, knees curled, coughing. He crams his hands between his legs protectively, a low moaning sound coming from the twisted sagging flesh of his face.

  Peals of laughter escape from the other boys and me; we are surprised at Freddie’s boldness and his accuracy. “Maybe that boy should play football,” says Wilfred. “Special teams and shit.”

  Freddie stands over Horvath, taunting him. “Who’s the faggot now?” he says. He winds his foot up again, ready to deliver another blow, this time to Horvath’s face. But Pike jumps into action. He knocks Freddie off balance with a shoulder block and hooks Freddie’s arms behind his back. Then, in a smooth, practiced motion, Pike slides his right leg over the front of Freddie’s left leg. He levers him up and over his hip, pitching him onto his face. Freddie’s glasses crack and fall off; his lip splits and he lets out an epic string of curses that makes Wilfred and Bobby laugh in appreciation. Blood and saliva spray from his mouth with each curse.

  Just three feet away Horvath makes it up to his knees, a line of drool running off his chin.

  “You okay?” Pike says, barely controlling the kicking, thrashing body of Freddie.

  Horvath staggers to his feet. He ignores the question. “He’s mine,” he says, wiping his chin with the back of his hand.

  Pike levers up Freddie’s arms so Horvath can slide into the primary position. Horvath takes the arms and puts his full weight on top of Freddie’s back. “Fucking faggot,” he says, squeezing, torquing the arms.

  Freddie’s face is mashed into the carpet, eyes wide with pain; he screams, “Don’t! You’re hurting me!

  “I’m sorry,” Freddie says. “Whatever you want from me, I’ll do it! I don’t care no more. Just get off me!”

  The boys of Bravo Unit shift nervously from foot to foot in flip-flops and their own fake Chuck T’s. We grimace whenever Freddie screams. Several boys throw gang signs, mutter curse words, and shout incomprehensible things that can only be the language of brutality, a language that is becoming too familiar to me. I see all of this now as inevitable, unstoppable. It’s like the scene in The Sea Wolf where the cook is dragged behind the boat and everyone knows what is going to happen. Everyone can see the shark fin cutting through the water like an implement of destruction, an agent of destiny. What started out as a joke (to give the foul-smelling cook a bath) quickly turned into a matter of life and death. That’s how it seems here, too, because Horvath is the shark, and Freddie is dangling from a rope.

  The guards’ radios stay clipped to their belts. The orange pin buttons remain un-pushed. And there’s no one who can help. Crupier’s still getting coffee, Mr. E hasn’t come in yet, and Samson is still recovering. I take the smallest step forward, but Wilfred is keeping an eye on me. He grabs my shirt and says, “You ain’t going nowhere.”

  Freddie is whimpering now. His face is flecked with blood and tears and saliva. “I don’t care anymore!” he says. “I ain’t going to college anyway.”

  He stops fighting, and his body goes limp, drained of anger, drained of the energy to fight back. But if Freddie has no more energy, then Horvath has too much; he is fueled by his own hate and blinding stupidity. He jacks Freddie’s arms up even higher, so that his chest is directly over Freddie’s shoulder blades and he is shouting directly into Freddie’s right ear.

  “I don’t care anymore, either, faggot. You hear me?”

  Freddie is silent now, except for the occasional sob, and I start to wonder if Horvath might actually kill him. Is it possible to kill someone in a restraint? Mr. E said a boy was killed at the place Mr. E was locked up in; maybe this is how the boy died.

  I look around at the other boys to see if they notice what’s happening, but they, too, have gone into fight mode, where kicks and blows are the rule, and you don’t even need to take sides. Wilfred lets go of my shirt and pumps his arms in the air, hooting, cheering for more violence. These boys were happy enough to see Freddie trash Horvath, and they’re just as happy now that the tides have turned. Maybe Wolf Larsen was right, and life is simply a mess. Maybe the strong eat the weak so they can stay strong. Maybe that’s all there is.

  Where the hell is Mr. E when I need him? Where is Mr. Pfeffer with his ice-cold root beer and his books? What good are they now? Useless, just like me and my immobile limbs, and the muscles that Samson worked so hard to help me build before he got struck down by a chair.

  62

  A deep sound fills the air around my head. It’s a low, growling note like the sound of the small-block eight-cylinder engine in Louis’s old Bronco, and it builds, growing, accumulating power, rising in pitch until it is shrill, piercing, and finally I can identify it. I know what it is—a war cry. A fucking war cry! And still it’s building, roaring above the stupid din of Horvath and Pike and Freddie’s insufferable noise.

  But before I can figure out where it’s coming from, my body is in motion and I am on top of Horvath’s back, punching at his head and the side of his face. My fists are light but potent, blazing fast; I don’t even care where they land, just so long as they move and fly and blur the air between him and me, proof that I am no longer immobile, no longer inert, no longer complicit in my silence and inaction. I am not the quiet, frightened boy sitting on the sidelines watching. I am finally doing something. I have made my choice.

  Horvath tucks into a ball for protection. He covers the back of his head and neck, and I remember Tony’s advice on fighting—get in close and go for the body. So I cha
nge up my punches and beat as hard as I can on his back. I swing wildly; most of the blows glance off harmlessly, but a couple of them drive home in the soft spot below the back of Horvath’s rib cage. He howls and rolls onto his side.

  At the same time, Pike gets off Freddie and grabs me from behind. He puts me in a choke hold and squeezes hard, like he really means to strangle me. I try to shake free, but he’s got me, tightening the hold every time I move. I can’t speak, either, because his arm is pressing on my throat and it hurts too much, like my Adam’s apple is being crushed.

  It is surprising how quickly I become dizzy from pain and lack of air. But I have a clear view of Horvath staggering to his feet, pawing at the right side of his face, which is red and blotchy from where I hit him. This gives me grim satisfaction, and I only wish I had hit him harder.

  Horvath lurches closer, and I can see that there’s something wrong with his eyes: they are looking at me and focusing, but there’s nothing inside them. It’s like Horvath himself, the angry, sweaty McDonald’s-eating guard, is gone. Even the mean part of him—that thought he could beat the gay out of Freddie or smash Pike’s dream of becoming a pilot—is gone, replaced by a staggering grunting animal who wants only to destroy me.

  He’s not able to see me now as I truly am, as I have finally discovered myself to be—James, a fifteen-year-old boy who is going to get out of this place and make a life for himself. I am not James the boy who wanted to be a man but didn’t know how. And I am no longer James the gullible boy who believed what everyone told him because it was easier than thinking for himself.

  It’s okay if Horvath doesn’t notice how I’ve changed, how I am changing. Why would he? He’s stupid, and blinded by rage. His mind has been turned upside down by a fake gay love letter, and beatings by two people he underestimated as being soft and weak.