Eureka Man: A Novel

by Patrick Middleton

  Mr. Sommers' opening remarks chimed with paternal salutations. When he introduced Junior Thompson, Mr. Sommers embraced Junior before taking a seat behind the podium.

  Junior, tall, dark and sharp-looking, paused and stared at his mother and sister who were sitting in the middle of the audience. First, he thanked his teacher, Ms. Rhoda Cherry, for her patience and endurance and for believing in him. Then he told a love story about a mother and older sister who had toiled all their lives to keep their family together and fed through the worst of times. Homeless twice, they had found shelter in the back of a car one night, and an abandoned building the next. Subsidy housing had worked until the building's structure was found to be on the verge of collapse, and he and his mother, grandmother and three siblings were homeless once again. This time his older sister Jackie quit school-she was in the eleventh grade-to take a full time job in a supermarket. Her selfless act had not only led to keeping the family together and in a decent home, but had enabled their mother to quit one of her three jobs. As tears flowed among the mothers in the audience, he went on about how his father had come and gone over the years like a midnight burglar. How he had rocked in their mother's cradle and left with the rent money so many times the children thought he was the landlord. He paused again and looked across the audience. His mother Val and sister Jackie were here tonight, he said, and he wanted to thank them for loving and encouraging him every day of his life. He thanked them and they wept openly, as did his teacher, Rhoda Cherry, and every other woman in the building.

  A standing ovation for Junior.

  Rhoda Cherry, toothpick thin and as cute as a mannequin, stood at the podium, drying her eyes and smiling. When she was finally composed, she thanked Junior for thanking her and said it was now her pleasure to introduce a man who had come to Riverview several years ago fresh off the streets of Philadelphia with all the potential in the world to succeed at whatever he set his mind to. And succeed he had. Eight years ago he had captured the Tri-State amateur heavyweight boxing title and still held it. At the same time, he had been the most tenacious student in her classroom, never giving up after failing the high school equivalency examination by only a couple of points each of the four years he had taken the test before he passed it. She was moved to tears again as she called Theodore “Champ” Burnett, Student of the Year, to the podium.

  Champ shook Rhoda Cherry's hand until she frowned and said, “You better show me some love.” Then she all but disappeared when Champ wrapped his arms around her. The sight of a prisoner embracing a female staff member was enough to make Superintendent I.M. White pull on his necktie and fidget in his seat.

  “That woman there,” Champ said, turning and pointing to the still tearful Rhoda Cherry, “is a real saint, another Mother Teresa. She puts up with more of our crap than anyone I know. I want to thank you, Ms. Rhoda, for taking me back in your room after all those times you threw me out for not doing my homework. I also want to thank my tutor, Oliver Priddy, for spending all those hours up in the school showing me how to break down algebraic equations. If it wasn't for that man, I would never have gotten a grip on learning algebra. Thanks, Priddy. You're one hell of a tutor, Jack.” Champ pointed to the back of the auditorium.

  Oliver nodded. Why did he have to mention me? he thought. Oliver had deliberately held back taking his last college course so he wouldn't have to walk down the aisle this night and draw attention to himself. It wasn't that he didn't want to be acknowledged by his family and peers and professors for all his accomplishments and scholarship. He did, and they had, at every milestone along the way. What he didn't want was to be recognized publicly by Champ or anyone else for the same reason he didn't want to be up on that stage and called the next prison scholar to be heading for a master's program. He didn't want the story getting out before he could get in and finish it. It would only take one uninformed citizen to complain that his tax dollars were being used to finance a murderer's graduate school tuition and then for some politician to pick up on the story and stump with it. Better to not be seen or heard from until it was all over. Oliver was a little embarrassed as several members of the audience looked over their shoulders and smiled at him. A little embarrassed, but proud nonetheless.

  “I also want to thank the school administration for giving me this award,” Champ went on. “I never thought in a million years I'd be student of the year. Thank you very much.”

  The graduates whistled and cheered while the rest of the people clapped for Champ as he returned to his seat.

  Now it was the keynote speaker's turn. When Mr. Sommers introduced Dr. B.J. Dallet, she approached the podium as if she owned the real estate underneath her feet. Oliver's heart pounded as he watched her look across the audience, smile radiantly, and wait. He tried to guess her age. Thirty-five? Forty? Whatever it was, she was exquisite. Her blue eyes were still intoxicating from thirty yards away.

  When she began, she looked directly at the graduates as if they were the only people in the room. “Good evening, graduates. Hopefully, each of you has a favorite writer whose words and ideas have affected you in some significant way. One writer whose writings have always moved me is that lovely sage, Maya Angelou. The words on the banner above and behind me are, as I am sure you are aware, her words. Tonight, as we celebrate each of your successes, I think it would be appropriate to take a few minutes of your time to talk a little about why the caged bird sings.

  “Simply put, the caged bird sings because it can. It sings because without a song there is no inspiration. Without a song there is no hope. By a song, I do not mean one on the radio or the eight track. Though surely those songs are important, too. The kind of song I am referring to is the one in your heart. The song of your daily lives. Like the song on the radio, the song in your heart has a beat and a rhythm, too. The rhythm can beat fast or slow, smooth or rough, hard or soft, loud or quiet. And just like the song on the radio, there is a tone and a mood to the songs of our daily lives. Dark or bright, happy or sad, cowardly or courageous, forgiving or resentful. We all write our own songs. You write yours and I write mine.

  “Let the lyrics of your song represent your goals and dreams. Let the lyrics of your song define how you treat others and yourself. And let those lyrics be a testimony of change for the better. If you write your lyrics well, they will comfort you when life gives you the trombone blues and life surely will, for the blues is an integral part of life. When the blues plays, it tests the quality and arrangement of our own individual songs, it reveals our characters.

  “Never stop writing new verses to your songs, people. And never stop revising the old ones, for that is what life is truly about. Arranging and rearranging so that, in the end, our song, our contribution, is the best it can be. Make your song one of hope and inspiration and endurance, for you alone have the freedom to do that. It is your choice and no one can take that away from you. No judge, no jailer, no prison walls.

  “I want to leave you tonight with these words from one of my favorite songs on the radio: Keep your heads to the sky. Never stop believing in yourselves, for each of you is a mighty, mighty person. Each of you can be all you dream of being. Thank you and congratulations!”

  At that very moment every prisoner in the building rose from his seat; the cheers and clapping went on for five minutes, and Dr. B.J. Dallet was a star among thieves. Oliver was mesmerized by her maternal aura and her elocution, and couldn't wait to stand beside her.

  After the last diploma was handed out and the closing remarks were made, the prisoners pushed and pulled one another to be the first to shake Dr. B.J. Dallet's hand and thank her for coming. Oliver waited patiently. Kept his composure and waited. The more the line thinned out, the closer he got to her and the more his heart raced. As the prisoner in front of him shook her hand and walked away, Victor Lejeune, a fellow tutor, stepped in front of him. “I'm waiting to talk with her, Victor,” Oliver said.

  “So am I. You're after me.”

  “I've been standing here-”


  “Excuse me, Dr. Dallet. My name's Victor LeJeune. That was a great speech.”

  “Why, thank you.” Dr. Dallet smiled warmly.

  “I was wondering if you can help me. I'm trying to get some information on a graduate program.”

  Oliver smiled and held his countenance in check. He moved a little closer to Dr. B.J. Dallet, but not so close as to be rude or intrusive.

  “In what department?”

  “Criminal justice.”

  “I'm sorry but criminal justice is not my area. I'm in the School of Education. The best I can do is try to pick up a brochure from our criminal justice department and bring it over here the next time I come. I can leave it with the principal, Mr. Sommers. I'm sure he can get it to you. Your name again?”

  “Victor LeJeune. And I work for the principal. I'm his head tutor. I'd really appreciate it if you could do that for me. Do you know when you'll be coming back?”

  “I have to come over on Monday for orientation, but I may not have the information for you by then. We'll see.”

  “Well, I'll be looking for you. It was nice meeting you.”

  “Nice meeting you, too, Victor.” She smiled genuinely and then turned to Oliver. “Mr. Priddy, is there a quieter place where we can talk?”

  “Yes, ma'am, but first, would you like something to drink, something to eat?”

  “How about coffee? A little cream, no sugar.”

  They got in line and one graduate's mother told her how stunning she looked in the Yves St. Laurent suit she was wearing. Dr. Dallet smiled and thanked her.

  The refreshment line was long and moving slowly. While she stood in front of him receiving wonderful comments about her speech, Oliver leaned over her shoulder and told her he would be right back. Then he walked to the front of the line and behind the serving tables.

  “Priddy, grab me a couple packs of those napkins from the box under the table,” said Big Jake.

  Oliver got on his knees and dug into the box. “Here. Need anything else?”

  “No. How 'bout you?”

  “Yeah. Fix me two coffees with just a little cream, would you? And put three or four of those ladyfingers on a plate for me.”

  “Got you.”

  “ 'Preciate that.”

  Dr. Dallet was watching as he made his way toward her juggling a plate of pastries and two styrofoam cups of coffee and weaving gracefully through the crowd. He motioned for her to follow him, but no sooner did she step out of line than Victor LeJeune appeared again.

  “Just one more thing, Doc.”

  “Yes?”

  “What if I decide to apply for my Master's in the School of Education? Would you be willing to be my advisor?”

  “We can talk about that sometime,” she said. “I'm not really sure at this point the extent to which I'm going to be involved in the program here. I do know I'm scheduled to teach an introductory linguistics course over the summer.”

  “Linguistics? Isn't that about where language originated and all that?” Victor asked.

  “Well, yes, but there's more to linguistics than the history of language.”

  Victor LeJeune ignored Oliver's glare. It was every man for himself and Victor was armed. Not with a shiv or a lead pipe or a shard of glass, but armed just the same. He was armed with a superiority complex. But Oliver wasn't threatened, he was irritated. He knew Victor didn't have a chance. His posture was wrong. His tongue slithered and his lusterless black eyes were uninviting.

  “Victor, you're going to have to excuse us,” Oliver said, finally. “There's not a lot of time left before Dr. Dallet has to leave and we've got things we need to discuss.”

  “Yeah. One more thing, Doc. All the fellows think you're wonderful and beautiful and classy and we all hope to see you around here on a regular basis. Thanks for coming!”

  Victor extended his hand and pumped hers several times before letting it go.

  Dr. Dallet followed Oliver to the front left corner of the room and sat down. She sipped her coffee and said, “You handled that so well, Oliver. Is he always that persistent?”

  “Yes ma'am, he is.”

  “Oh, please don't call me ma'am, Oliver,” she said, with a light chuckle. “I'm too young for that. Call me B.J.”

  The lilt of her laughter pleased him and instantly reminded him of his mother June.

  “Before we get started,” she said, “I want you to know my schedule is clear this coming Monday afternoon. I have to come over for orientation in the morning, and then I'm having lunch with Mr. Sommers. I can come back in the afternoon and meet with you and have you fill out some forms and applications. Will you be free then?”

  When she said the word “free” they both laughed. There was no uneasiness between them, the kind that often accompanies first meetings. She smiled like a friend.

  “Sorry, Oliver. Poor choice of words.”

  “Actually, free is a great word. And, yes, I'll be free on Monday afternoon.”

  “Good. Now why don't you tell me a little about yourself? I know you're a lifer. I've seen your academic transcripts and I've read the brilliant essay you wrote for the C.S. Award you earned. So I already know you're a scholar. Tell me some other things you'd like me to know about you.”

  “Where would you like me to start, Doctor?”

  “Wherever you'd like.”

  He set his cup down and licked the sugar from his fingertips. She was waiting and studying his eyes while he swallowed the last of the ladyfinger. He wondered if she noticed his left pupil was slightly larger than the right one, and if she thought that flaw was remarkable. He wasn't sure where to begin. Being too easy on himself would be just as embarrassing as being too hard, so he thought he would balance the good with the bad. He was from the state of Maryland, he began. He had three siblings and a father he didn't know until a few years ago. His mother June was a horticulturist and a recovering alcoholic. Bicycles, marbles and spin-the-bottle had all been staples of his youth. His first love was a gaggle of Sisters of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, followed by his mother's girlfriends. Juke boxes, Nehi sodas, and pool halls had been his haunts after school; the movie theater on Friday nights; dance halls and drive-ins after he reached puberty. He had been incorrigible from day one and enjoyed just about every minute of it. His favorite movie was “Cool Hand Luke,” his favorite president, LBJ, and his favorite poet, Langston Hughes. What he despised the most in life were bigots and a stepfather named Ernie Boy the Second. He would save that story for another time, he said, as well as the one about how he wound up in Pennsylvania. He ended by telling her that discovering higher learning had saved him from wolves and himself and he was hoping she would help him continue his quest for higher learning and another college degree.

  He paused and looked at his watch. “It's getting close to that time,” he said.

  “Oh, my. How much time do we have?”

  “A few minutes.”

  Her face was animated even when she frowned. “I'm so glad I got to meet you tonight, Oliver. I feel honored that you shared a part of your life with me. Now let me share with you that one of my reasons for accepting the invitation to come over to this prison and help you with your graduate studies is that one of my own two sons could have very well been your next door neighbor a few years back.” She leaned into him and lowered her voice. “He had a serious drug problem. Cocaine,” she whispered. “I'll tell you more about it some other time. I just want you to know before we have to leave that I'll do anything I can to help you further your education. I understand you only need one last course to finish your bachelor's degree.”

  “And I'm taking it now, Dr. Dallet.”

  “Good. We'll get you started in my program this summer.” She smiled at him with unwavering assurance and then looked away to observe a half dozen guards moving through the entrance doors. After the guards had taken up positions along the back wall, the captain of the guards announced that all guests were to begin making their way to the back exit.

/>   Dr. B.J. Dallet stood and extended her hand. Oliver took it in both of his, thanked her for coming and told her he was looking forward to seeing her on Monday. When he released her hand he hoped the gesture was a little more personal than a formal handshake.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “You're quite welcome, Oliver. And thank you. I'll see you on Monday afternoon.”

  While he watched her go he smiled to himself, suddenly realizing that he had forgotten what a woman looked like moving in a crowd.

  chapter eight

  TRULY DISCONTENTED PROFESSIONALS know they are. Know when the money and the years invested in their careers have ceased to bring fulfillment or happiness. Seldom dreaming of change, they often resign themselves to believing, as dream-bitten people do, that a gold watch and the final exit are the only destinations left to them. Lucky are the ones who find an epiphany whispering that they themselves are responsible for their own well-being. When this happens, change is often seen as a definite possibility. It might be an appetite for a makeover, a hobby or some weekend adventure. Or it may be as simple as an urge to do something benevolent.

  As a young girl, B.J. Dallet had been driven by the completion of tasks, one after another in a variety of fields: academics, arts, music, sports. No sooner did she finish creating a collage out of the Saturday Evening Post covers than she went to her mother's piano and practiced one Broadway musical arrangement after another until she could play each fluently. If working out with the high school track team so she could be the best seventh grade high jumper in the state was overdoing it, her parents couldn't tell. Home by six, she ate dinner, completed her homework and still had time to read a good book before going to bed. She was a prolific reader all her life and having received a fine education, she learned, among other things, the true meaning of the word “philosopher.” Knowing that this label provided her with both drive and courage, she believed that to conceive of a possibility was to begin it.