Palindrome

by E. Z. Rinsky

  “Because they’re fucking delicious.”

  “It’s an animal that feels,” Courtney says. “That was alive. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  I stop eating and stare at my food, trying to really internalize what Courtney is saying. But I find it nearly impossible to think of my meat as anything but just food.

  “Tell you what,” I say. “Say we find that tape, and it turns out—­I don’t know how—­but it turns out that we have eternal souls or something. Which means maybe animals do too. If we find that tape in Silas’s cell, or wherever, I’ll consider becoming a vegetarian.”

  Courtney puts his fork down and stares at me seriously. “You mean it?”

  “Yeah.” I crack my knuckles and extend a tender hand. “Shake on it.”

  “And what if Sadie wants to keep eating meat. Will you let her?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. At that point we’ll probably be vacationing at some remote Italian villa, so that will be a good time for you to bring it up with her.”

  “Me?” Courtney asks in surprise.

  “You’re not coming?” I ask in mock seriousness. “C’mon, if we break into that place, get the tape, and Greta pays us what she said she would, or even if she bails and we have to sell it to Orange at a steep discount, the three of us are going to fucking Sicily tomorrow. How does that sound?”

  “Fine.”

  I take a bite of omelet, avoiding any ham on this forkful. That tape could put Sadie through in-­state college, or I could open a café to escape from this lifestyle. Just being around ­people like Orange makes me miserable; reminds me of the depths of depravity to which the human animal can sink. Not to mention, I’ve taken five serious beatings over the last ­couple years, including yesterday . . . and I won’t be able to keep that up forever.

  But there’s more. I want to find this thing, listen, and make sure it’s bullshit. Because otherwise this little nagging homunculus who came to life sometime this past week—­the same voice that’s surprising me by taking Courtney’s anti-­carnivorous criticism to heart—­is going to keep wondering if Savannah Kanter really did see something in her final moment on earth. And I’m not sure he’ll shut up until he gets an answer, one way or another.

  “We can’t break into his cell if they know we’re there,” I say slowly. “Even assuming we could somehow get away from whoever was escorting us, they’d be watching us on camera. Especially now, after ‘Ben and Leonard.’ ”

  Courtney listens, rapt. I scratch my chin.

  “We’ll have to go over the wall,” I say.

  His eyes go wide and he sits up straight.

  “What about the guard towers?”

  “We’ll go in the morning. There will already be inmates out in the yard for them to keep an eye on, plus hopefully they’ll be tired from the night shift. Anyways, they’re not worried about ­people breaking in.”

  Courtney’s eyes glow. His thumbs start twitching.

  “Over the wall,” he repeats breathlessly, unable to contain the excitement in his voice. Bright eyes fixed on me, he raises his mug of steaming tea to his mouth. Recoils the moment the scalding water touches his lips, then nearly drops the mug.

  “If we’re caught,” he says, once he’s composed himself, “we’ll get much more than a beating.”

  “True. Though there’s not much legal precedent for breaking into a loony bin.”

  Courtney taps his fingers on the tabletop like he’s typing up a pros and cons list into an invisible computer.

  “You’re already thinking too much,” I say. “Just gotta do it. Like pulling off a Band-­Aid.”

  I can’t tell if I’m trying to convince Courtney or myself.

  “So . . . you’re in, right?” I ask.

  He puts both hands behind his head, leans back and stares at the ceiling of the shabby diner.

  “Yes,” he sighs. “I suppose I am.”

  A QUARTER TO seven the next morning, we park the Honda a half mile away from the Berkley Clinic, at the start of a long dirt driveway that leads to what looks like an abandoned farmhouse. Don’t think anyone will be disturbing it. Besides, that’s truly the least of our concerns.

  We’re both wearing cheap parkas over our white scrubs and boots for this trudge, with sneakers in our packs to change into for the climb. It’s fucking freezing out here; wet, cold wind cutting right to the skin. My long johns—­final line of defense—­are not equipped to deal with this magnitude of cold, but we wouldn’t be able to climb in real coats.

  The pale yellow sun seems like he’s taunting us, hanging low in the east behind thick fog, like he’s still deliberating between showing his face and warming up this barren tundra, or just hitting snooze and pulling the covers over his head for another hour.

  I also happen to be terrified, which makes me feel even colder than I am. I’ve never broken into government property. My joints are still stiff and locked up from the beating. Woke up after a miserable three hours of restless sleep with my jaw sore from grinding my teeth. I’m still taking shallow breaths, because the deep ones hurt my ribs a lot. At least I didn’t have any more dreams.

  “Seven fifteen we start climbing,” Courtney says, mostly to himself. I feel like I’m gonna throw up every time I think about what we’re doing. Just have to keep telling myself that my plan makes sense. And that Courtney wouldn’t have agreed if it was boneheaded.

  No ski masks. We have to blend in. There are over a hundred orderlies at this place, which hopefully means that nobody will question our presence there. Ideally, this includes Dennis, Luke, Dr. Nancy, Dr. Pollis and Harrison, who saw us in senior citizen gear. I figure we should be in and out in forty-­five minutes.

  I instruct my feet to keep walking. Don’t think, just act.

  We arrive at the eastern brick wall—­the one closest to Sachar—­after a twenty-­minute march. The sentry towers are located in each corner of the complex, plus one between each along the four walls, eight in total. We walk until we figure we’re three-­quarters of the way along the eastern wall: the most distance from guard towers possible.

  We move in silence. Courtney unclips his backpack and I do the same. We chuck our hiking boots away and slip on sneakers—­what all the orderlies seemed to be wearing. Plus, not bad for running.

  Next comes the daisy chain—­superthin camping twine that can support like five hundred pounds. Courtney looks around. There are no trees growing close enough to the wall to tie the chain around. That would have made things easier, but he’s prepared for this eventuality.

  He whips out a minidrill, the kind rock climbers use to secure bolts. My heart tightens as he bores into red brick, the whine of the drill shattering the cold stillness. I imagine the guards suddenly pouring over the walls, a horde of blind rats honing in on the sweet drone.

  But then he’s done. No guards. I exhale. The only sounds around us are the distant buzzing of cars on the highway, the occasional morning cry of a bird overhead.

  I stuff the drill into my backpack, and he hammers a steel bolt into his newly drilled hole, clips on a carabiner, then clips on two lengths of daisy chain.

  Looks at me long and hard.

  “I’ll go first,” he says.

  “I know. We discussed this.”

  “Sorry.” He bites his lip. “I’m nervous.”

  “Me too.”

  Courtney squirms.

  “What are we looking at here?” he asks. ­“Couple months in jail for B and E on federal property?”

  “Let’s not go there,” I say.

  He drops the daisy chain and reaches back into his bag. Pulls out two disposable needles and his Mason jar filled with ruddy brown fluid. Fills up the first syringe.

  “Forgot to take our vitamins.” He smiles. “You first.”

  I bend over on the wall and wince as Cou
rtney jabs it into my ass.

  “Double yesterday’s dose,” he says as I feel the warmth filling my chest. My bruised ribs and hips seem to be touched with the vitamin’s glow. I’m filled with love and confidence. I can do this.

  “Now you do me,” he says, handing me the second syringe and bending over a little too eagerly. He exposes his pale, rosy, hairless bum to me like a bouquet.

  “I really hope we don’t die in a few minutes,” I say. “Because I’d hate for this to be my last memory.”

  I shoot vitamins into his boney ass, and Courtney jerks up straight, looking refreshed and flushed.

  “Alright!” he says, then clips both daisy chains to his ankle with outrageous enthusiasm and pulls out his suction cups. Two are gloves, two go on your knees. He showed me last night in the motel room: twist right to engage, twist left to disengage. It’s not too tough on the hands, but rotating your knees 90 degrees in either direction is pretty fucking hard. Wish Sadie had dragged me to that yoga class a few more times. Courtney breathes in deep, staring intently at the brick wall, psyching himself up. Then he’s climbing.

  I watch his backside ascend slowly, methodically. Too slow. I shake my leg in agitation.

  Left arm up, twist to engage. Right knee, twist to engage. Right hand, twist to engage. Left foot engage, and then disengage the left hand.

  His stepwise crawl is distinctly turtlelike, and I can’t help thinking how exposed and vulnerable he is up there.

  But they can’t see us on this side. It’s only a fifteen-­foot wall, and Courtney is at the top, peering over, in about two minutes.

  “So?” I whisper from below. He looks down at me and gives a thumbs-­up. Then reaches back into his pack for wire cutters, gets to work cutting a path through the barbed wire.

  I dance around nervously like I have to pee, shifting my weight between my two feet. Actually, I do have to pee. Really fucking bad, all of a sudden. While Courtney is clipping the wire I pull down the front of my scrubs—­no fly—­and urinate on the brick wall like a dog. Only as I’m finishing up do I realize that my urine is possibly as incriminating as fingerprints. Guess that will be one for me and Courtney to laugh about in our jail cells.

  “Done,” Courtney whispers. He tosses the wire cutters down to me, then takes off the four suction cups and throws them down to me as well. I hastily tie on the knees first, then put on the gloves. Courtney gives me a terrified thumbs-­up, takes another deep breath, then disappears over the wall. Both lengths of daisy chain go taut, and I try not to imagine him sliding down the other side. Then the chains loosen up. He must have landed. I count to three, waiting for shouting or shooting.

  God, I hope they use rubber bullets here.

  Nothing.

  I unclip one daisy chain from the anchor, clip it into the climbing harness I have on over my smock. Leave the other one attached to shimmy down on the other side.

  Close my eyes and take a few fast, deep breaths.

  Don’t think, Frank. Just fucking do it.

  I attack the wall, trying to do just like Courtney did. It should be easier for me, too, since I have him helping me out by pulling from the other side. Gotta hurry. The longer he stands there in the shadow of the wall, the likelier someone is to notice. I’m a scant two feet off the ground and my arms are already on fire. Courtney’s jerking me up on the daisy chain like I’m a fish on the line. Five feet up, I try to untwist my left knee and something pops in my hip area. Try to ignore the pain and twist again.

  The left knee cup slides off the wall, but so does my right knee; guess I didn’t engage it properly. I’m suspended, just hanging by my hands, Courtney tugging urgently on my harness. But I’m not budging.

  “Shit, shit,” I groan.

  I’m breathing hard from exertion, and it hurts like hell. My eyes tear up from the pain in my abdomen and ribs. I simply cannot lift up my left leg to engage again. I’m stuck. Should I just let Courtney go alone?

  Not an option. There’s no way he can deal with Silas alone. Plus I have the ID card in my backpack. Courtney took the climbing tools, I took the clothes, shoes and any other shit we might need: ceramic knife, notepad, some tools of persuasion, fake ID card for one of us, and the real one he ripped off of Dennis for the other.

  Courtney’s tugging now seems desperate, like what’s happening over there? I try again to get my left knee to catch. No dice. I look up. Only like six feet to the top of the wall. Six measly feet. C’mon, Frankie.

  I slide my feet into a small crevice in the wall between a layer of bricks, disengage my left hand, and reach up as far as I can. Twist back, engage. Right up as far as I can, twist engage. I clench my teeth. I was never good at pull-­ups. With every ounce of strength I have, I pull up on my two hands, then instantly slide my feet into another crack, disengage the left, shoot up, engage, disengage the right, shoot up, engage, and then I have my first hand on the top of the wall.

  For a second I’m so proud, so ecstatic, that I forget myself. And then I see the guard tower to my right, maybe a hundred meters away. If there’s a guard there, he’s not out on the balcony looking very closely. Or, I guess, he’s looking for ­people trying to get out, not in. I pull myself up to the top. Not careful enough, though. The suction cup gloves spare my hands from the barbed wire, but the metal tendrils catch my right ankle. It’s not deep, but it still hurts like fucking hell. Blood instantly stains the bottom of my white pant leg.

  Down at the base of the wall, Courtney is gesticulating wildly. Come on.

  I unclip the daisy chain that Courtney had been using to assist me and let it drop. Then I grip the one still attached on the outside of the wall and half climb, half slip down as fast as I possibly can.

  My butt hits the hard, cold earth at the bottom with a thud. Courtney grabs my elbow and jerks me to my feet. We dash across a stretch of completely exposed yard. I’ve never felt so vulnerable in my life. No cover, frosty sun, just a seeming eternity of cold, hard grass that Courtney is pulling me across.

  Finally we tumble into the shadow of a small shed about twenty yards from the wall. Flatten ourselves against the grey wall. I try to catch my breath but can’t, try desperately to gulp down air, but it feels like my lungs can’t get full, fingers tingling, like an elephant is standing on my chest.

  “Frank,” he whispers. “Settle down. You’re going to hyperventilate and pass out. It’s okay, you hear me? We’re in.” He puts a hand on my shoulder and taps gently. “That was the hard part. We’re in. We’re okay.”

  “Oh my god,” I wheeze. “I need to join a gym.”

  “Concentrate on slowing down your breathing,” he says.

  He’s really gripping my elbow now, looking into my eyes seriously, his long horse-­face consuming my entire field of vision.

  “You know,” I pant, “you really need to pluck your nose hairs.”

  He shakes his head, rolls his eyes. He takes the suction cup gloves off my hands and unclips the ones around my knees. Then notices my wound, a growing patch of red around my ankle.

  “Oh no.” He’s on his knees, lifting up my scrubs, inspecting the gash caused by the barbed wire.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “Looks worse than it is.”

  “We gotta clean this up. ­People will notice the blood.”

  “What are we gonna do, launder it?”

  Courtney thinks for a moment, then takes a T-­shirt out of my pack and ties it around the wound.

  “This will at least help it scab and stop you from passing out from blood loss.”

  He rolls my pant leg back down but stares fixedly at the scarlet splotch, biting his nails. I grab his skinny shoulder and jerk him to his feet.

  “Don’t think about it,” I growl. “Let’s just fucking go. In and out. I’m not planning on getting close enough to anyone for them to notice.”

  Courtney chews on his thumb desperately
. Completes a scan of our surroundings like a prairie dog.

  “Okay, okay,” he concedes. “Let’s go. Sachar is right there.” He points to the low building we entered two days before to speak to Dr. Nancy. It’s about two football-­field lengths away. “Then we get to the front gate and just get the hell out of here.” He looks at me. “Ready?”

  I try to concentrate on my breathing, which has steadied somewhat but is still way too fast.

  “If we get caught, I’m gonna try to pin this all on you,” I say.

  THE PLACE IS dead at this hour. No morning calisthenics or forced marches at dawn. I check my watch: 7:43. Animals still asleep. Guess there’s not much reason to get things started early around here. I think about all the psychos still tucked away in their bunk beds. Wonder what they’re dreaming about.

  We try to stride casually toward Sachar. No question now that the guards in the towers have seen us, but hopefully it’s not that unusual for orderlies to be walking the periphery of the property this early in the morning, or for them to be wearing backpacks.

  Courtney keeps his hands in his pockets, eyes locked on the two-­story building that houses our man. If I don’t say something to shatter the eerie silence, my head is gonna explode. My ankle pulses biting pain. I’m not limping yet because of adrenaline, but each step sends a twinge of sharp discomfort shooting up my leg.

  “I wonder if there’s a better way, Frank,” he whispers. “Maybe we should wait until lunchtime or something when there’s more going on to distract everyone.”

  “No,” I say. “We’re not changing the plan now. Can’t second-­guess ourselves. We’re here. We’re doing this. The longer we stay here, the worse our chances.”

  We won’t have to get through any chain-­link fences to get to the front entrance to Sachar, because the fenced-­in pen built to contain the tier-­three nut jobs during recess is attached to the rear of the building. We walk past the empty cage.

  I imagine what the pen must look like around lunchtime, filled with milling psychos. Not much to do in there—­a lone, netless basketball hoop, what looks like a rusty bench press, four wooden lunch tables. The ground is hard black pavement with sharp green weeds sprouting out of the cracks. If Silas wasn’t nuts when he checked in, he’s probably there by now.