Little Boy Blue

by Edward Bunker

  “You’re just supposed to be counting. Get up and get outa here. You know that room doors aren’t unlocked this late without calling the O.D.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “But, my ass. Get outa here.”

  Fields got up grunting and went out muttering. The other attendant hunkered down. “C’mon, Hammond, get up in the bunk. He won’t come back in here.”

  Alex stayed partly under the bunk, ready to retreat instantly until the door was securely locked.

  * * *

  Mr. Whitehorn and the ward doctor never made rounds before ten A.M., but this morning they were at Alex’s door at eight-fifteen. He hadn’t been let out for breakfast. A tray had been delivered, though he couldn’t chew and had to nourish himself on semi-liquid gruel, faintly resembling corn meal mush. Whitehorn frightened him, but hope surged on sight of the doctor. Alex’s fingers had hinted at how his face looked, and he expected the doctor furiously to demand explanation. A physician was inherently against such brutal inhumanity, and this one was a refugee from a Central European country, hence a victim of sorts. He brushed the ashes from his vest and, with a heavy accent, asked Alex to move his jaw; he then tugged the boy’s nose and poked his ribs. When finished he announced that nothing was broken. Alex waited futilely to be asked what had happened. It finally sank through that this doctor didn’t care that three adult attendants had kicked and punched him into this condition. He was on their side.

  Despite his years, Alex had learned stoicism, though the words were different: “Don’t snivel.… Don’t show any weakness.… Hold your mud.… Never give them motherfuckers the satisfaction of knowing they hurt you.…” Other admonitions meant the same thing, and he had taken them sufficiently to heart that he managed to clench his teeth and not accuse anyone, although the doctor’s attitude instilled more hate in the boy than the brutality of the attendants. Alex looked coldly at the round, olive-complexioned face throughout the brief examination. The doctor had been prepared for a diatribe, and he became nervous (perhaps with guilt) when all he got was an unblinking stare from the boy’s unusually cold eyes.

  “Now you learn maybe, huh?” he said. “Vhen you attack somevone, you can expect retribution in kind, vhat?”

  Now Alex’s staring silence was as much consternation as stoicism. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, that instead of victim he was culprit.

  “Bet you don’t swing on any more attendants,” Mr. Whitehorn said. “You got away lucky. If you broke my glasses you wouldn’t have any teeth. Who’s gonna pay for Mr. Hunter’s glasses?”

  Lacking an answer, Alex felt tears of hatred stinging his eyes. The others were brutal swine, but these men were supposed to be responsible.

  “Brave bastards! Aren’t you? All of you bastards!” The terse accusations were punctuated with gasps, but the words were nonetheless clear, and Alex was immediately horrified that they’d spilled from his mouth. He’d seen one patient speak rebelliously to Whitehorn, and snot and blood had flown from his nose as the knuckles silenced him. Alex was in too much pain to withstand even a few blows. Even probing fingers brought a groan. “I’m sorry!” he said. “Please…”

  The man with the steel-gray hair had flushed, jaws knotted, and he would have struck from reflex except for the doctor’s presence. His eyes went back and forth (the doctor was grinning, as if the outbreak was humorous), and the quick apology gave him a way out. “You must be crazy … not know what you’re saying. But don’t go too far and swing on another one of my attendants. Isn’t that right, doctor?”

  The physician nodded. “Vhen seffen attendants control one hundred and thirty patients, all who are criminals and not intelligent, sometimes it takes harsh measures.”

  At the door, Whitehorn paused. “We’re leaving you in this room for now … until staff decides something.…”

  When the lock bolt slipped into its niche, Whitehorn then testing the door with a shake, Alex stood mulling his situation for a long time. Some things made him feel better, while others put the corrosive acid of anxiety into him. Meanwhile, with each heartbeat his awesomely battered, swollen face gave a throb. He was actually glad to be confined to the room. He would have been painfully embarrassed to show himself like this, especially with the adult patient who had helped the attendants out there. He would have to attack the man, and he didn’t have a chance. Alex felt dizzy with murderous thoughts, remembering the traitor. Locked up here, though, he could escape the constant tension of the madhouse. In the room he could rest, masturbate, and dream. If only he had reading matter—but, come to think of it, he’d never seen a book anywhere on the ward. An occasional magazine, yes; books, never. Yet with a supply of books he might prefer this to the ward indefinitely. Indeed, he would have glorious moments when something especially thrilled him. It was magic the way words could make worlds. Some books he liked more than others, but he thought this was just himself rather than a difference in quality in them. Alas, it seemed he would have to go without. Assuming he stayed locked up until he went back to court, it meant a month with nothing to do.

  It was the thought of court feeding the roots of his anxiety. The staff here would recommend his destiny, and the judge would simply ratify the recommendation. The fight with the attendants wouldn’t help him. He’d assaulted The Jabber, so it was written on the reports, and to the world the reports were gospel. Nevertheless, he was proud of what he’d done. No matter how he examined the maiming nightmare, he was right. He’d been a fool, true, but wrong—never.… Even if he’d yelled at the women’s ward, it was wrong for grown men to punch and kick him. This he knew absolutely, despite his age. No doubt the institution staff would want to hurt him for it, just as the ward doctor and Mr. Whitehorn were against him. It would hurt most if they recommended a permanent commitment to mental hygiene, if he went to Mendocino.… Toyo said that patients in Mendocino were given electric-shock treatments for fighting. Electric-shock therapy wasn’t used here in Pacific Colony, but Alex had seen it administered in Camarillo, and just thinking of it terrified him. If he was committed, sent to Mendocino, he would kill himself. He’d read where the ancient Romans took their own lives when things became unbearable, and it was considered a noble act. It would be better than becoming a vegetable. His decision, made fiercely, was followed with immediate fear that he would lack the courage to do it. “I won’t think about it,” he said aloud, with the same ferocity. Hearing his voice so angry made him laugh; the tension eased away. He began looking at birds on the lawn outside the barred window.

  In the later afternoon he was napping when someone banged on the door. He came awake and sat up just as something was slid under the door—a Saturday Evening Post magazine with a small bulge in the middle. When he opened the magazine he found five cigarettes, several loose matches (themselves total contraband on the ward), and the piece of a striker. He knew it was from Toyo; he had no other friend on the ward, at least none who would do him a favor. His gratitude was an ache bordering wet eyes. Whoever swept the hallway had delivered the magazine, probably threatened with an ass-kicking if he refused. No doubt more would be arriving tomorrow, and for as long as he was locked up. He ripped a small hole in the mattress and hid the smoking material; he’d ration himself to make them last. But it was the magazine that thrilled him. No matter that it was a year old. He would escape for the evening with it. Not knowing if it would be confiscated if seen but assuming the worst, he raised his legs beneath the blanket to hide the magazine as he read. The first article was about the new two-hundred-inch telescope planned for Mount Palomar.

  * * *

  By the following week, Alex’s right eye was open enough to see through, but his face was still puffed and discolored. Forever after he would have a small lump beneath his right cheekbone, unseen but easy to locate with a finger. On the morning of “staff,” Mr. Whitehorn informed him that he wasn’t going in person. The staff would decide without him. Alex was frightened. He’d counted on seeing the other doctors and convincing the
m—sobbing and begging on his knees if necessary—that it would be wrong to recommend committing him to a hospital. Now they would have just the reports, and he was afraid. God, he was afraid.

  A long time later he would realize that the doctor and Whitehorn hadn’t wanted the staff to see his face because nothing on paper could justify battering a child to such condition. But now while it happened his guts crawled, and he felt hollow with fear. Even a new Reader’s Digest failed to exceed a blur. Then in the afternoon, just before shift change, Mr. Whitehorn was due to come around, already wearing his coat preparatory to going home. He never opened the door but peered through the window. He had to sign a log on Alex’s condition before turning things over. Whitehorn had sat in on “staff” and knew the recommendation. So Alex was waiting at the glass, his cheek pressed to it so he could see the man coming. When the man approached the door, Alex put his lips to the crack and called out, “Mr. Whitehorn. Lemme talk to you!” He shifted back to the glass.

  “What’s up?”

  “Can you tell me what happened today?”

  “At staff?”

  “Yessir. What’d … what’s the recommendation?”

  “You’ll know pretty soon.”

  “Please…” But Whitehorn was already moving away and out of sight.

  “Dirty … rotten bastard motherfucker!” Alex spat between clenched teeth, turning away and kicking backward on the door, a hard kick. The door jumped in its frame, making a loud bang. Alex expected the noise to bring the attendants down on him, but in his anger he had no fear. When he thought about the beating, he was afraid, but in rage he was less afraid than before.

  He flopped down on the bunk and folded his arms across his chest, staring at the ceiling and burning with anger. God, he hated them.…

  13

  On Monday morning, without advance notice, an attendant brought Alex’s clothes in a bundle and threw them on the cot: not the ward denims but the clothes he’d worn in the garage near the beach when arrested. Two months of being rolled up unwashed had made them stink, but the odor was insignificant compared to his upsurge of joy. He was leaving this place—not to freedom, of course, but even freedom wouldn’t have made him happier. He was so keyed up that he fumbled tying his shoelaces, and then he had to be told to button his pants.

  The ward was on work call and cleanup period, twenty minutes in the morning when they didn’t have to sit on the benches. Word was out that Alex was leaving, so Toyo and two others were waiting when he was escorted across the dayroom.

  Toyo started to shake hands, but the attendant got between them. “Say good-bye, but no contact.”

  “They think you’ll give me a gun, I guess,” Alex said with a sneer, words and attitude that would have brought a backhand not long before but not when he was leaving. Toyo and the others trailed to the side.

  “Where you going, carnal? To court?”

  “Yeah, I think so. Where else?”

  “You won’t come back here, will you?”

  “Jesus, I hope not. This fuckin’—”

  “It ain’t so bad.” But Toyo made an ugly face behind the attendant’s back. “Take it easy, carnalito. Learn to duck those right hands … and hook off the jab.” Toyo ended with a grin and wink, giving Churchill’s “V” for victory sign, so popular in those days.

  They were at the office door and it closed behind him, ending the good-byes and turning the friendship into memory. Alex never saw Toyo again or met anyone in his later travels who knew the skinny Chicano and what had happened to him.

  In the room beyond the office a uniformed deputy sheriff was waiting with handcuffs. Several inches over six feet and many pounds over two hundred, his cheeks flushed with embarrassed surprise on sight of his prisoner. He chuckled and, almost shamefacedly, put the handcuffs back on his belt.

  “How old are you?” he asked Alex.

  “Nearly twelve,” Alex replied, wondering why the man was shaking his head in disbelief.

  Attendants and deputy performed the rite of signing receipts for his body, etcetera. When that was done, the deputy signaled he was ready and the door was unlocked solemnly. “C’mon, slugger,” the deputy said. “We’re late already, so let’s get rolling.”

  Stepping into the bright sunlight, Alex froze, temporarily blinded. It was his first time outdoors in two months. The deputy led him by the arm, firmly but not roughly. “They said you were mean, but they didn’t say you were eleven years old. ‘Mean.’ How the fuck can an eleven-year-old be mean?”

  The car was plain white, without markings or special lights, although the inevitable police radio was inside, giving constant static-punctuated directions to misery, pain, and violence. The deputy shut it off as they left the grounds. Alex bubbled seeing freedom after seeing nothing except a manicured lawn from a window for so long. Scenery-watching was a habit he developed young and never lost.

  The deputy was supposed to deliver him to court by ten A.M., but it was nine-thirty when they left Pacific Colony in heavy traffic, and fifteen minutes later they were still thirty miles away from downtown, stopped at a railroad crossing while a train jockeyed back and forth at five miles an hour, the freight cars banging in ragged sequence time and again. When automobile traffic finally got under way, it was ten-twenty. The deputy pulled to a phone booth in the corner of a gas station.

  When he came back to the car, he grinned. “Okay, Slugger, it’s put off until one. I can run you right in and leave you in the bullpen at the courthouse, or we can stop for a cheeseburger and milk shake. You probably haven’t had anything like that lately.”

  “No, sir, not for a while.” Alex restrained his urge to show joyous anticipation.

  “Okay, kid, just one thing. I don’t want to have to watch you like a hawk every second. And I’m not going to handcuff you to a table and have everybody think I’m a monster. So give me your word that you won’t try to run and we’ll make it look like we’re pals. Okay?”

  “You’ll believe me?”

  “If you give me your word … sure I will.”

  “You’ve got it. I don’t have anywhere to go anyway.”

  In San Gabriel, a picturesque suburb highlighted by one of California’s old missions, directly east of downtown Los Angeles, the deputy parked behind a restaurant. Large and gleaming—because it was glass, chrome, formica, and stainless steel—it was the kind of short-order restaurant peculiarly endemic to southern California. The lunch-hour trade had persons waiting for booths.

  The hostess said: “There’s room at the counter, if you and the boy.…”

  “How ’bout it?” the deputy asked, ruffling the boy’s hair.

  Alex shrugged. “It’s cool with me,” he said, then followed the big man, conscious that he was inches from the butt of his revolver. It would be so easy to jerk it out. The thought passed quickly through his mind—pointless speculation—and disappeared as they slid onto stools.

  “How’s cheeseburger, fries, and a vanilla shake sound? My wife doesn’t let me carry too much money.”

  “That sounds good … really good.”

  Thus was the order given to the waitress without using the menus she brought. When she turned away, the deputy leaned close. “I have to use the restroom. You stay here. Remember you gave your word. Don’t get us both in trouble.”

  When the man was gone, Alex’s sensibilities were swarmed over by the flux of bodies, by the cacophony of voices and dishes. Everything was so sharp, so crystalline as to seem unreal and confusing. In the mirror facing him he could see street images behind him, scurrying pedestrians, hurtling automobiles, all of it alternating from drab to brilliant under scudding clouds. It took Alex’s breath away, and a nameless, keening hunger went through him. Without being able to articulate the yearning specifically, he sensed a fierce call to freedom. It would be so easy to get up and walk out; the deputy would never see him, much less catch him. “Free” meant more than not being in an institution. He already knew absolute freedom, being able to go whe
rever he wanted whenever he wanted, following his nose over the next hill. A child never had freedom unless he had lived as Alex did as a runaway.

  As the longing peaked, recollection of his promise braked the thoughts. He’d given his word. His struggle against that truth lasted just a few seconds. He was munching his cheeseburger when the deputy sheriff returned.

  * * *

  The windowless room where juvenile prisoners were held waiting for court had been painted since Alex’s last appearance. It was already liberally marked with fresh graffiti. The bailiff had given Alex a sack lunch, the standard slice of bologna slapped dry in stale bread and an orange spotted greenish-gray. With a full belly, Alex had taken the sack, because youths from Juvenile Hall were always hungry and would take a second sack lunch. But nearly all cases had already been heard on the morning docket, so just two others were waiting when Alex came in, and they didn’t seem concerned with food. They hadn’t even opened their own bags. They glanced up when the door opened and went back to their conversation when they saw it was another boy. Both were white and about Alex’s age. Alex sat on a bench and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, looking down at the concrete floor, pointedly ignoring the two youths. He couldn’t, however, turn off his ears.

  “Man, whaddya mean, you can’t?”

  “I just can’t, that’s all.”

  “Ow, wow!” He threw his hands up in exasperation with such sudden force that the other boy flinched away in panic, afraid that he was being attacked. “Dammit, Bobby! If you just say it wasn’t me with you, they’ll cut me loose.” The speaker stopped, shook his head, and rubbed his hand hard across his face and eyes, meanwhile staring and showing venom in his expression. The other boy kept his eyes averted, frequently glancing at the door.

  “Bobby, listen here. I haven’t said anything, man—but I know you snitched on me.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Shut the fuck up!” The words were unleashed fury, seething with threat. They silenced Bobby. “You did. You had to. How else could they have come for me so fast?”