The ward had a second long corridor, and this one had sleeping rooms. A low cot was the only furnishing in each room. Most patients slept in a dormitory. Younger patients and observation cases were given the rooms, where they couldn’t be raped. At nine o’clock, Alex and the others were called. He did what they did, taking off his clothes and piling them neatly at the mouth of the hallway. They walked naked past an attendant while another one let them into their rooms. The locks clicked behind. Soon the room lights were turned off from outside. Alex was already in his bunk, but he got up to look out. The grounds were lighted. On the outside roof above him were lights. He could see myriad insects rushing and whirling toward the lights, battering out their brief lives. A big gray moth bounced its life away on the screen, finally fluttering out of sight below the window ledge. Alex remembered the lights coming through the dormitory window in Juvenile Hall. Every institution seemed afraid of darkness. All of them had lighted grounds at night, even when nobody was moving around. He could see one ward about a hundred yards away, most of its windows glowing squares. He’d soon learn that it was the high-security ward for females, confining the same category females as the males on his ward. It was easier for the females to get released, however; they could go whenever they agreed to sterilization.
Now, however, the day’s tension had enervated him. His body yearned for sleep, both to rejuvenate and because sleep was an escape. He was gone to Morpheus half a minute after he closed his eyes. He didn’t remember dreaming, but he came awake suddenly in the middle of the night. An attendant had a flashlight trained on his eyes through the small window in the door and was banging on it. The bed was soaked with sweat.
“Knock off that yelling!” the man behind the light said, “or I’ll come in there and give you something to yell about.”
This time Alex cried himself to sleep but muffled the sound in the pillow.
12
Though not hostile to friendly overtures, Alex had already learned suspicion of them when he was a newcomer in an institution. Despite loneliness and a yearning for acceptance, he was blank-faced and cold-eyed when someone spoke to him, an unusual facade for an eleven-year-old. Moreover, despite being afraid of the attendants and among the youngest on the ward, Alex was keyed up to fight instantly if challenged. In the first week he saw six fist fights, including three where the benches were pulled back. This happened when the match seemed even and both were willing. No punishment was inflicted if the fight was good. The black had been made to pull the concrete “block” on that first day because he’d kicked the Chicano, who happened to be one of Whitehorn’s favorites, a flunky who cleaned the office, made coffee for the attendants, and shined shoes.
Two Chicanos in their early twenties were brought in from an open ward. They were well-known to both patients and attendants, having been in and out of Pacific Colony for several years. They were brought in for gathering a huge dose of phenobarbital that got them goofy, and because phenobarbital acts very slowly, they were goofy for three days. Although Whitehorn laughed at them and apparently liked them, he still put them on the concrete block for thirty-six hours spread over three days.
One was given a seat across the room, the other the empty place next to Alex. The returnee’s name was Toyo, and in a slurred voice he began talking to Alex. It was impossible to ignore someone so high. Toyo was skinny and swarthy, with high cheekbones and a hooked nose. Despite his size, he was one of the “dukes”—one of the best fighters in a world where nothing else mattered in deciding status. He always won in a long fight when the benches were moved back because he never got tired. He was fairly fast, his bony fists cut, and he could go full-speed for half an hour without rest. Most others were winded and energy drained in five or ten minutes.
Considering Toyo’s proximity and garrulous condition, very much akin to that of a happy drunk, to put him off would be outright insulting. Alex wasn’t ready to insult—nor to refuse the cigarettes that Toyo had and shared generously. Hence, when Toyo finally got off the concrete polisher and sobered up, he was Alex’s only friend. Through Toyo, Alex began talking to others on the ward, among whom Chicanos were a majority. He never got close to anyone for several reasons: he was already interested in other things, such as books; he didn’t want to admit that he might stay here very long; he was among the youngest, and those his age were obviously feeble-minded, not just uneducated or with language problems. One Saturday, he found Toyo in a corner during recreation period, the Chicano struggling to write his sister, who would read the letter to his mother, translating it into Spanish, for she spoke no English. Toyo hadn’t finished the fifth grade and spoke no English at all when he started school. Now his brow was furrowed as he tried to make his handwriting less obscure. Alex began answering how to spell words exceeding one syllable, but it was easier to take over, more or less, and write what was dictated. Next a Chicano nicknamed PeeWee, a friend of Toyo’s, enlisted Alex’s help to compose a love letter to a girl on the ward across the road. After that Alex was asked several times a day to write a letter for someone. It gave him acceptance, though not status. The stupidest cared the least for intelligence. When there was no real fight, they “bodypunched.” That was the same as fighting except that no punches were aimed at the face. It was a boxing match sans clinches, from the neck down. Sometimes it got heated and turned into a fight, but usually it was both practice and a test. Toyo and Alex bodypunched several times in the exercise yard, the Chicano augmenting the lessons given by First Choice Floyd in Camarillo. Alex’s boyish gawkiness was diminishing so he could better control his body. He’d only been able heretofore to practice Floyd’s teachings in the air; now it was almost for real. At first he couldn’t let fly at Toyo, both from fear and because he was his friend, but when Toyo tagged him sharply, the pulse of competition took over. He began blocking punches without flinching or closing his eyes, snapping his own back fluidly. He could punch nearly as hard as Toyo, though he was unable to put together swift combinations like the Chicano. Sometimes he would land a clean, hard blow and Toyo would retaliate swiftly. Once or twice Alex’s wind was ripped from him, but Toyo wouldn’t let him quit. Sometimes he ached, and sometimes at night in the small room he shadow-boxed, practicing feints and footwork, blocking and slipping imagined blows, counterpunching wickedly. He was learning how to fight with unusual skill for his age, notwithstanding a lack of special physical abilities.
He also began playing poker, using what Red Barzo had taught him and winning regularly. Actually, most games played here lacked any resemblance to real poker. They were offshoots, with many wild cards and odd rules. Alex remembered Red and simply threw in his hand until he had something special. The others played every hand, so he took their small money and cigarettes; he was happy to share it with Toyo, who had backed him in the first place.
Thus the terror of the first day diminished, though it never disappeared entirely. He never relaxed completely or felt comfortable or stopped hating this place. Tension was constant, and he was always glad when the door of the sleeping room locked behind him at night.
After a month, a young female clinical psychologist came to the ward and spent two afternoons in an interview room administering a battery of tests to him. He recognized the first as the Wechsler-Bellevue intelligence test, and he concentrated intently, wanting no mistake that would keep him here. The other tests were new to him. She put out pictures of faces, asking him which he liked the best and which he disliked. He was shown other pictures of people doing things and asked to tell a story of what he saw. These took one afternoon; the next afternoon he had to answer five hundred questions “yes” or “no.” It was all he saw of professional staff. The ward doctor was observed talking to Mr. Whitehorn in the office once or twice a week. He had five wards and never saw a patient unless there was a special problem. Pacific Colony’s function was custodial, the care and feeding of morons, not futile attempts at teaching them. What could be done for cretins and halfwits?
The psyc
hologist told Alex that he’d be appearing before “staff” in a few weeks. This was a meeting where the court report and recommendation would be decided. He wouldn’t be returned to Pacific Colony; he definitely wasn’t feeble-minded. But if he was designated a “psychopathic delinquent” he could be committed indefinitely and sent to Mendocino, the hospital for the criminally insane. Pacific Colony was a playpen compared to Mendocino, so the grapevine said. Alex couldn’t imagine anything much worse than this. At least several times a week, someone was beaten up severely by the attendants. The evening crew was worse, as was the night charge attendant, a choleric little man in his fifties who had, by legend, been a featherweight boxer in his youth. Whitehorn had a sense of humor, but Mr. Hunter never smiled—except while watching patients fight among themselves or while attendants were whipping one of them. Any infraction, no matter how trivial, brought an ass-kicking during the evening. Talking in the mess hall or during silent periods brought a punch or a kick. Alex learned to stay expressionless while watching three or four attendants thrash a patient, though his heart always raced in dread and he smoldered in silent, raging indignation. Juvenile Hall’s lesser brutalities had somewhat prepared him for this, teaching him that violence went on everywhere that men had power over each other. He had his first layer of callousness. But fear outweighed indignation, and he managed to mask his rage.
Routine helped the days go by. Because he was an observation case, he was confined to the ward. Committed patients went out on crews, cutting the lawns, digging ditches, and other labors of brawn and no brains. He swept and mopped the kitchen hallway after breakfast, then lounged in the dayroom for the rest of the morning. In the afternoon he went into the yard. It was paved with asphalt, and the high fence was topped with concertina wire.
A week before “staff,” the trouble happened. It was night, and he’d gone naked into his room and folded back the bedsheet and single blanket. He could hear the benches being moved in the dayroom as the late cleanup crew went to work. Soon the lights would go out and he would stare into darkness, feeling pangs of longing—an inarticulate pain.
A mop slopped against the bottom of his door as someone did the corridor. Alex went to the lidless toilet to urinate. While standing there, he heard someone yelling from the nearby mop-room window to the women’s ward: “Marsha! Mash, mi vida!” Without thinking about it, Alex turned from the toilet to the window, seeing a figure in the distant window, faintly hearing the answering yell. For a few more seconds Alex stared out, now at the stars thick in the night sky. He heard a sound from the door behind and turned. A face was in the small window. A moment later the key turned in the lock and the door started to open. The rule required any patient in a room to stand up when an employee entered, but Alex was already up, so he simply turned. It was Charge Attendant Hunter, nicknamed “The Jabber,” and his eyes were hidden behind his glasses catching the wan light. The Jabber always moved in a rolling gait on the balls of his feet, but now he moved more swiftly, so Alex sensed something amiss. He experienced a flash of fear before The Jabber lashed out with a backhand and his knuckles rapped wickedly across the boy’s nose, hurting even more than a punch would have, bringing instant blood from his nostrils and water (not tears) from his eyes. He ducked away reflexively, too surprised and hurt to think. The other hand flashed at his face, this one a closed fist that flashed lights in his brain and snapped his head back.
What the…? his mind asked, totally confused as he covered his face. The man snatched the boy’s hair with one hand and punched his face with the other. This time Alex went down, sitting with his legs doubled under him.
“Get up, you punk!” The Jabber snapped, kicking the boy in the ribs. Alex rolled over and braced his hands on the floor, preparatory to rising, but a volley of slaps sat him down again. “Caught your little ass, didn’t I?” The Jabber said, kicking him in the side. “Yellin’ to those simpleminded sluts, eh? See if you do it again!”
Alex shook his head and started to deny his guilt, but before he could issue the words, a vicious slap knocked his teeth together; he could feel chips of them on his tongue.
“Get up, you punk!” The Jabber said. “Stand when I’m in the room.” He stepped back, one leg forward, head arched in a deliberate pose of haughty cruelty. Alex peeked out and understood; the man was deriving pleasure from this. Tears of stifled fury welled in Alex’s eyes. The man came forward and Alex’s hands rose to cover his face; he cowered back in the corner. Mr. Hunter’s bald head gleamed, and so did the gold crown on a tooth as he sneered. His gold-rimmed glasses enlarged his blue eyes and made them bulge. He feinted, snickering as Alex flinched, deriving enjoyment from the boy’s fear. “Make your bed,” he said, turning and going out.
When the key turned, Alex let the tears flow. It wasn’t pain that made him cry but the humiliation of being beaten when innocent and not fighting back. He hated his own fear more than the cuffs and kicks.
Somehow the cot had become disheveled. Alex pulled it away from the wall to get behind, sobbing and trembling while he tightened and tucked the covers. With each passing minute his fury increased, totally filling his consciousness; he’d cowered when innocent, accepting an undeserved and cruel punishment. So it was that he didn’t notice the door being unlocked for the second time. His first awareness was the three sets of shoes below white pants. He looked up. The Jabber and the two other burly attendants were inside, while behind them in the doorway was the adult patient who ran the clothing room. The Jabber was twirling his heavy keychain with blurring speed.
“This is the asshole who’s been yelling,” The Jabber said, ending with several grunts of emphasis.
The pale blue eyes doused Alex’s rage. He froze behind the bunk. He was already on his feet so he didn’t have to stand. The Jabber came to the boy, who was nearly in the corner. The man’s hand flew out, quick as a striking snake, burning the boy’s cheek, bouncing his head against the wall. Flashing lights from the blow blinded Alex, but something else exploded, too: his own brain. His fist struck back, his position too cramped for full leverage, but it was stiff and straight and the man didn’t expect it. Eyeglasses crumpled, shards of glass cutting cheek and nose. The blow froze Mr. Hunter. His mouth gaped open. Alex punched again, using the other hand, adding power. It hit The Jabber in the mouth and drove him back—but he had nowhere to go. The bunk tripped him and he fell on it. Alex lunged forward going for the kill. He tried to get around the man’s drawn up legs. He managed to grab a handful of white shirtfront with his left hand, cocking his right to punch again.
The two attendants, paralyzed by surprise for seconds, now leaped in. A heavy forearm circled his neck from behind, cutting his wind and crushing his larynx. His punch stopped as he was jerked back, but his clutching fingers still held The Jabber’s shirt; it ripped from neck to waist, leaving the black necktie dangling on a disengaged collar.
Alex clawed futilely at the forearm choking him. The Jabber was up, his face blotchy, spots of blood seeping from the glass cuts on his nose. He was still in front of Alex, raising a fist, teeth exposed in a snarl. Alex kicked him in the testicles, erasing the snarl, eliciting a cry of pain and doubling him over.
Alex never saw the fist that smashed into his eye, instantly swelling it to three times its size and closing it for a week. All he saw was a flashing light accompanying pain. Another blow crushed the wind from him. Someone grabbed his thrashing feet and lifted him. An attendant still had the choke hold. The terror of choking mixed with his pains, and he writhed maniacally but futilely. An attendant held his legs, and the patient was standing on the bunk, kicking him in the stomach. He screamed, knowing it was futile but unable to do anything else.
The Jabber, too, was recuperating, spitting blood and curses as he came around and repeatedly smashed his fist into the boy’s unprotected face. Alex wanted to scream and plead for mercy, but only gasps came from his mouth. He could barely breathe. He was going to die. When he fell limp and unconscious the blows continued, but h
e couldn’t feel them.
He awoke in the night choking on his own blood. It covered the sheets. It had dried and his cheek was stuck to the mattress. He tore loose in agony and felt the right side of his face. It was grotesquely swollen; his hand seemed to touch a huge grapefruit. His whole body throbbed in pain, every heartbeat pulsing it. He wondered if his jaw was broken or if teeth were gone; it hurt too much to touch and find out. He was in too much pain to cry.
Thus he lay unmoving in the darkness, occasionally drifting into a few minutes’ sleep. And he was utterly terrified of them. Thus when the key turned and the door opened, framing in the corridor light the bulk of the graveyard-shift attendant, he struggled to his feet, moaning as he tried to stand erect.
One of the midnight-to-eight-shift attendants played football at nearby Claremont College. Young and huge, tonight his breath smelled of alcohol. Alex caught the odor instantly, a second before the football player lurched forward and swung. Alex dropped to the floor, the punch missing him. “Oh, please,” he said, trying to clutch the young man’s leg, feeling the big muscles bunching for the kick. Alex rolled once and began crawling under the low cot, whimpering in torment and terror. The shoe caught him in the thigh; then he was far underneath.
“Punch an old man, huh?” the attendant said, voice slurred, puffing from drink, exertion, and emotion. His flashlight beam played about his feet. He began to kneel, muttering maledictions. Alex slipped as far back as possible, his heartbeat racing. The man’s head tilted down low, issuing the smell of bourbon. The flashlight blazed into Alex’s eyes. He let out a scream of terror, more that of an animal than a human being.
“Shaddup, punk!” the attendant said.
But other footsteps sounded in the doorway. “Fields,” the voice said. “What’s goin’ on here?”
“Teachin’ this sonofabitch a lesson. He swung on Hunter, broke his glasses.”
Little Boy Blue Page 17