A lazy Susan dominated the middle of the kitchen table. The only other time I’d seen one was when Sam, Malcolm’s father, took me and my mother to the Chinese restaurant in Palm Springs where he worked as a prep cook. A sugar bowl, salt and pepper shakers, and a basket holding steak sauces sat on the raised center of Mrs. Poole’s lazy Susan. I wanted to spin the big circular disk to see how fast it would go. I wondered if this was something Kevin did, if this was something he and I shared.
“Is he coming home soon?” I asked.
“Who?”
“Your son.”
She breathed in sharply. “You’re interested in Kevin, aren’t you?”
“Not really.”
“Kids are. Mostly for the wrong reasons.” She pushed back her chair and stood up. Reluctantly, I followed her to the door, angry at myself for ending our time together.
“You ought to stand your bike up,” she said, looking at my bicycle, which lay on her walkway. “It’s bad for the gears.”
“It doesn’t have a kickstand.”
“You should get one. They’re not expensive.”
“Okay. I will.”
She laughed lightly. “You’re very agreeable.”
“Not really.”
“It’s a compliment.”
“At home I’m not so nice all the time.”
“Well, home can be a complicated place.”
“It doesn’t seem complicated here.”
She looked at me carefully, seemed to hesitate, then spoke. “Would you like to meet Kevin?”
“Sure.”
“I’m going to visit him on Sunday. You can come along if you’d like. I think he’d enjoy seeing a new face.”
“Okay.”
“You have to ask your mother if it’s alright with her.”
“She won’t mind.”
“Ask her.”
“I will.”
“I’ll call your house to confirm.”
“She works,” I said quickly. “She’s never home.”
“Not even at night?”
“She’s tired. She doesn’t like to talk on the phone.”
“Well, I’ll need a note.”
I nodded, already imagining copying Laurel’s signature, the wide loop of her L dwarfing the other letters, which looked like small goslings following their long-necked mother.
“I told Kevin about you. You and your brother. I like him to know what’s going on here. I want to keep him involved in our life.”
“He knows my name?”
She smiled. “He thought it was an interesting name.”
“It’s the god of war. It’s from myths.”
“Yes, I know.”
“I’m not really interested in war, though. I used to be when I was little. But not anymore. My mom doesn’t let us play with guns.”
“I should hope not.”
“I mean toy guns.”
“Well, you never know around here.”
“I make them out of sticks. I mean I used to. Not anymore.”
“You boys and your guns. I don’t know what the fascination is.”
“But I don’t have a gun,” I said, feeling as though somehow she knew the secret of my buried treasure.
“I know,” she said, laughing, her eyes lighting up. “I was just teasing you.” She ruffled my hair.
That Sunday, I told Laurel I was going to ride my bike. As I expected, she didn’t question me. Malcolm still had a fever, and she wasn’t feeling well either. She said it was probably a good idea for me to get out of the house rather than go stir crazy staring at two sick people, and she gave me a few dollars in case I got hungry. I put the money into the pocket of my jeans next to my forged note.
“Maybe tonight I’ll feel better. We can play Monopoly.”
“Okay.”
She smiled wanly and rested her chin on top of Malcolm’s head.
THE JUVENILE DETENTION CENTER WAS forty-five minutes from Mrs. Poole’s house. I rode in the passenger seat of her Oldsmobile station wagon. She placed two cans of Coke between us on the front seat along with a pack of peanut butter crackers and a napkin. “We’ll eat lunch with Kevin,” she said when we got into the car. “The crackers will tide you over.”
We drove in silence. She stared at the road, occasionally flexing a tired hand. I ate the crackers, twisting apart the two halves and scraping the peanut butter off with my teeth. I was careful to eat the crackers in one bite so that crumbs wouldn’t fall over the clean car upholstery. Still, a few bits fell onto my lap. After I gathered them up, I was not sure what to do. Eating them would provide another opportunity to make a mess, and it might appear to her as though I was eating trash. So I held them in my fist for the rest of the ride, letting them fall to the ground after we parked and got out of the car.
My expectation of the prison and its reality diverged so radically that, for a moment, I thought I had misunderstood, and that we were not going to be visiting Kevin at all, but that Mrs. Poole had taken me to a department store. I had imagined a block of drab, windowless government buildings surrounded by cyclone fencing, and guard towers with dour-faced sentinels in sunglasses standing inside them, slowly scanning the prison yard, rifles at the ready. But the detention center turned out to be one of the most modern and bright-looking buildings I’d ever seen. It stood out in the landscape as something impervious to the battery of sun and wind. It seemed optimistic and enduring in a way very few buildings in the desert did. The structure was all curves—an architectural style that was new and startling to eyes used to utilitarian squares and rectangles. Purple and yellow decorative stripes wrapped around its middle like ribbons on a present. There were many floor-to-ceiling windows that revealed the reception area within.
“They have an indoor tree!” I blurted out.
“What?” she said distractedly as we walked across the parking lot toward the main entrance.
“A tree. It’s growing inside the building.”
“I guess it is. I never really thought about it.”
“Is there a hole in the ceiling?”
“What?”
“For the tree. To get out at the top.”
“I suppose. I don’t know. I really don’t know anything about the tree, Ares,” she said sharply. She adjusted the belt on her dress, touched her hair, then gripped the shoulder strap on her purse so hard her fingers became bloodless. A small brass sign next to the front door read: “Oak Glen Juvenile Improvement Center.” The name made me think the detention center was more like a camp, a place where you could get better at things like swimming or basketball, or making bracelets out of lanyard. Inside, the reception area was decorated with framed posters of baby animals and flowers. Magazines were stacked neatly on small laminated tables, which were in turn surrounded by comfortable couches and chairs. Mrs. Poole instructed me to take a seat while she signed in. There was a small area to the left of the couches covered in red and yellow rubber mats. Two little children negotiated a plastic climbing structure and slid down the two-foot slide. They were too big to get up much speed, but they went at the activity over and over again.
“Here, put this on,” Mrs. Poole said, walking toward me and handing me a tag on which she had written my name in her perfect librarian cursive. The fact of her having considered the letters that formed my name felt thrilling and intimate to me.
“Follow me,” she said. She led me through a metal detector, then to a closed door, where she stopped and waited. I heard a click and the door seemed to unlock itself. Mrs. Poole pushed it open, and I followed her into a short corridor. A security camera stared down at us from the ceiling. I made sure to keep my hands by my side. I didn’t want to forget myself and scratch my nose or make a sudden suspicious movement. The hallway led to another door. Mrs. Poole stopped again, waited for the click, and I followed her out into a fenced yard.
Made of hard-packed dirt interspersed with concrete playing surfaces, the yard was full of boys standing in clusters, all wearing identical dark
blue pants and white T-shirts. There was a half court, and next to that a set of chinning bars. Across the yard, by the far fence, stood a row of high swinging rings. Some boys took turns on the rings, launching themselves expertly from one to the next. Others kicked a soccer ball or played basketball. Mrs. Poole tilted her chin up and looked across the yard of boys, smiling tensely as though she expected a ball to hit her in the face. She waved hesitantly. A boy pulled away from the group standing near the rings and started toward us. He was tall and lanky, and his light brown hair was cut into a short brush like all the other boys. His walk was indolent; he practically slithered, barely lifting his feet off the ground as if any decisive movement might reveal too much desire. Kevin looked younger than he did in the picture on Mrs. Poole’s desk in the library. His ears stuck out on either side of his face like the handles on a jug, and the tips were sunburned a deep red. His high color helped obscure his acne. Mrs. Poole smiled, but he didn’t smile back. She reached out and patted him awkwardly on the shoulder.
“You look like you got too much sun,” she said. “Don’t they give you sun lotion?”
“No,” he said. He stared down at the ground, put his hands in his pockets.
“Well, I’m going to say something about that,” she said. “This sun is punishing. Even for the darker boys.”
Kevin looked me over. I felt short and embarrassed to have no discernible muscles like the boys around me. I did not in any way resemble someone who could have done anything brave enough to be in this place.
“This is Ares, the boy I told you about. The one with the brother I work with at the house,” she said. “He asked if he could come. He wanted to meet you.”
Her white lie and her surprising nervousness around her son made me think that she had invited me to act as a buffer between them.
“Hey,” Kevin said.
“Hi.” I raised my hand but then let it drop, feeling foolish.
“Jerry had to go to a meeting,” she said. “On a weekend no less. He said to say he’s sorry he couldn’t make it.”
“No he didn’t,” Kevin said, without apparent rancor. “He never comes.”
“You know his work is demanding.”
Kevin shrugged off the excuse. “I don’t care if he comes or not. I don’t care if you come.”
They were silent for a while. Kevin stared at the ground. Mrs. Poole looked across the yard then back. “Did you have a good week?”
“I hate it here.”
“How were the classes?”
He shrugged. “They’re doing stuff I already know.”
“I guess they have to account for all the boys in here. Some of them might not have had much schooling.”
“Some of them are idiots. Real retards.”
“Well, we shouldn’t judge.”
“I knew you’d say that.”
Her face colored. “School is school, right?” she said, trying to recover. She continued talking about things that didn’t matter, like the weather and how many times a week Kevin was allowed to shower. Her efforts were embarrassing. I wondered if she was keeping the conversation going for my benefit or whether, on normal visits, they had anything to say to each other at all.
“How is the therapy going?” she said.
“It’s for faggots.”
She absorbed this. “Have you had a chance to talk yet?”
Something flashed in his eyes that was kin to a smile but wasn’t. “Yeah. Sure. All the time.”
“What do you talk about?” she said.
“I don’t have to tell you.”
“Of course not. I just—”
“I told them that I hit you. That I gave you a black eye. That I practically broke your nose.”
She glanced at me, clearly upset that I had heard this. “I just want you to get the help you need.”
Kevin looked over his shoulder at a passing group of kids. I could tell he wanted to be with them, not stuck here with his mother, whom he didn’t seem to like at all. A noise erupted from the boys standing near the rings.
“What’s going on?” she said, with a manufactured enthusiasm. She was acting the way adults did at zoos when they tried to get children excited about watching crocodiles that never moved. “Let’s go over and see. I hope no one has overtaken your record. Tell Ares about the record.”
“It’s nothing,” Kevin mumbled.
“It’s not nothing,” Mrs. Poole said. “Tell him.”
“I did a hundred once,” Kevin said, following her toward the rings.
“Well,” Mrs. Poole corrected him, “fifty times one way, fifty times the other. You should see Kevin on the rings. He moves like invisible wires are holding him up. He’s very good at gymnastics but he won’t take it at school.” We stopped near the apparatus. “Kevin, show Ares.”
“No thanks.”
“Ares would like to see, wouldn’t you, Ares?”
I felt trapped. I was mesmerized by Kevin, by the evident power of his apathy. He was like a boat rocking unevenly beneath Mrs. Poole, making her unsure of her footing. His power over her was almost frightening to witness. It had never before occurred to me that I could gain some dominion over my life by doing the very opposite of what I had learned to do all these years. I could disregard what Laurel thought of me. I could simply not care.
“Wouldn’t you like to see, Ares?” Mrs. Poole repeated, more desperately.
“I guess.”
Reluctantly, Kevin took his place in line, becoming quickly absorbed in the conversation of the boys there. When it was his turn, Mrs. Poole put a hand on my shoulder. “Watch,” she said.
Another boy stood behind Kevin and helped him jump up and reach the rings. Once Kevin got a firm grip, he jackknifed his legs back and forth several times to gain momentum then reached for the second ring. I heard the slap of his hand connecting to the metal as he glided from one ring to the next all the way down the line.
“It takes a lot of upper body strength,” Mrs. Poole said, not taking her eyes off her son.
Kevin reached the end of the line then smoothly turned himself around and started back. He faltered midway through, missed a ring, and had to swing himself a few times to get his rhythm back.
Mrs. Poole’s expression tightened as she watched him. When he gained the next ring, she looked away. “Well, it’s hard to be put on the spot,” she said.
When Kevin finished, he walked toward us, staring at his open palms, which were red and puffy.
“Great job,” Mrs. Poole said, smiling enthusiastically.
“Yeah,” I said. “That was cool.”
“Thanks,” he mumbled.
We ate lunch in the cafeteria. There were a lot of visitors eating with boys, and the atmosphere was lively. Several men wearing badges that said “Monitor” on them stood at the perimeter of the room, walkie-talkies hanging from their belts. A group of boys became rowdy. When one of them stood up and leaned across the table to make his point, a monitor pushed off the wall and started toward the commotion, walking slowly and deliberately. He stopped about six feet from the table, his legs spread in an upside-down V, his hands folded in front of his groin. The boy sat down, grew quiet, and stared at his plate.
We ate our hamburgers in silence. Mrs. Poole looked tired and seemed to have lost her earlier optimism. She ate small bites, then finally gave up. Kevin finished his burger in a matter of minutes, not taking his eyes off his meal as if he thought it would be stolen out from under him unless he was vigilant and quick. I shook a bottle of ketchup over my burger and some of the paste flew onto Kevin’s shirt.
“What the fuck?” he said, standing up, his expression instantly twisted with rage.
“Sorry,” I said, mortified.
Mrs. Poole held her hands out toward Kevin and turned her face away from him, as if she were protecting herself.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, no.”
“Shit’s all over my shirt! Do you see this?” he shouted, holding his shirt toward her. “Do you see this
shit he did?”
“It’s okay,” she said, dropping her arms, trying to regain her composure. “Take a breath.” People at other tables looked in our direction. One of the monitors walked toward us.
“Why’d you do that, man?” Kevin said to me. “What’s your fucking problem?”
“It was a mistake,” Mrs. Poole said.
“I’m sorry,” I repeated miserably.
“Is there a problem here?” the monitor said.
“We’re okay,” Mrs. Poole said. “It was just an accident.”
“Sit down, Kevin,” the man said, and Kevin obeyed. “Can you get control of yourself?”
“Yes, sir,” Kevin said quietly.
“Do you need some time alone?”
From Kevin’s reaction, I had the feeling this meant something different and more upsetting than Kevin taking some peaceful moments in his room.
“No, sir,” Kevin said. “I am in control of myself, sir. I’m overreacting, sir.”
“Who do you need to tell that to?”
Kevin, with some reluctance, faced me. “I overreacted,” he said. “I apologize for my behavior.”
“Are we going to have anymore problems here?” the man said.
“No, sir,” Kevin answered.
The monitor nodded once and returned to his position at the wall.
After lunch, we followed Kevin to his cottage. It was decorated like an army barracks. Six low metal beds were lined up against one wall. The beds were all made up exactly the same way, the sheets pulled tight around the mattresses, the blankets folded down evenly. Each boy had a footlocker and a small side table, but there were no personal items on these tables, only identical drinking cups.
Kevin opened his locker and took out a fresh shirt. He turned away from us and pulled his soiled shirt over his head. The developing muscles of his back undulated. A long red scratch ran alongside his spine.
“What happened to your back?” Mrs. Poole said, concerned. “Did someone hurt you?”
“We were just fooling around. It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” she said. She stepped toward him and touched the injury lightly. “It looks infected. Did someone examine this?”
He spun around. “Don’t,” he said.
The God of War Page 10