The Warden's Son

by C. G. Cooper

  “Yeah, what is it?” Larry parroted. I hated when he did that.

  “You’ll see. It’s next to the house,” Dad said.

  I focused on where he was pointing. Damn my shortness. Dad took pity on me. For the first and last time, he said, “Take off your seatbelt, James.”

  It was off like a dead man’s noose. I stood with a hand on both front seats.

  I saw a mini log cabin, a replica of the big one, right where Dad had pointed.

  “Is that my room?” I exclaimed, nearly short of breath, hoping beyond hope that that was my surprise. Mine, not Larry’s. My own house, without that pain in my ass sneaking in and taking my toys. It was like going to college.

  Dad laughed. Mom giggled.

  “It’s not your room,” Dad said, “It’s your fort. The inmates used it as a model before they built the big house. They never tore it down. Thought you might like it.”

  I was the type of kid who shook a birthday card after removing the fifty-dollar bill that came in it. It should come as no surprise to anyone that I was a little miffed that I didn’t have an apartment of my own at ten. Thankfully, that disappointment subsided quickly. Hell, this was a dream. Maybe Mom and Dad would let me camp out there. Oh, the war plans I would hatch from that mighty redoubt.

  “Hurry up, Dad!” I said, not caring about a punishment. None came. Dad was enjoying the show as much as I’d ever seen him enjoy, well, anything.

  We skidded to a halt, and I was out the door faster than spilled mercury. The mini-cabin, which I immediately dubbed ‘Fort Wilderness,’ was perfect. It even had a heavy-hinged front door to keep marauding Indians (not to mention those treacherous redcoats) out.

  I eased the door open, not wanting to spoil the sanctity of the place. Inside was better than out. I didn’t care about the dirt floor. And who the hell cared about the smell of old earth, like when you turn up the ground after a thaw? All I cared about was the tiny window, perfect for sniping and for spotting the enemy before they attacked.

  This one room was bigger than any bedroom I’d ever had. There was plenty of space for rations for the winter, extra ammunition, and weapons. I could fit at least thirty—no, fifty of my closest colonial friends who’d left their farms to pillaging forces and suited up in the name of freedom.

  My imagination swirled from planning battles to fighting in them. Then Larry ran in.

  “Yay!” he said, nearly knocking me over as he bull-charged into my place.

  “You can’t come in here.”

  He ignored me, doing a funny little hop to try to grab one of the windows and heave himself up.

  “Help,” he whined, wanting a boost. I could’ve toppled him right the hell out of the window altogether.

  “No, you little weasel. This is my fort.”

  Bad move, Jimmy.

  Larry turned and puffed out his chest. I knew what was coming next.

  “Moooooommmmm! Jimmy said I can’t play in the fort.”

  And then, to my dismay, my utter horror, a stake in my ten-year-old heart, I heard the dreaded words.

  “James, the fort is for you and your brother.”

  The freedom fighters were screwed. There was a redcoat in our midst.

  Chapter Four

  Move-in day was every bit of dreaded disgust I knew it would be. When I wasn’t checking off the carefully-numbered boxes as the movers carried them in, I was unpacking them. Dishes. Frames. Gardening tools. Clothes.

  On and on it went. All the while, I tried to steal glances at my fort. Larry was out there now, soiling the place with his presence. Mom had given him a box of toys and told him to stay in the fort. Great. An indomitable colonial redoubt littered with GoBots.

  I, on the other hand, had to work, and I wasn’t even getting paid!

  Still, I knew better than to complain. I consoled myself by thinking about the many summer days I was going to spend in my new Shangri-La. Maybe I’d dress Larry up as a French general and burn him at the stake for treason.

  “Hey, kid. Before I have to shave again,” murmured one of the movers who was looking down at me as he was sweating huge drops.

  “Sorry,” I said, snapping from my daydream. “One sixty-nine,” I read off the box. Then I crossed off the number from the list on my lap.

  The mover grunted and went on his way.

  Mom glided in with a tray filled with tall glasses of iced tea.

  “Can I have one?” I asked, my mouth salivating. It was summer in Virginia. That meant hot. Even hotter since my dad wouldn’t let us turn on the air conditioning until the movers were gone. No sense wasting money, he said. The warden was always careful not to spend a penny of federal money on anything he considered extravagant. Apparently, not dying of heat-stroke was a luxury.

  “It’s a privilege to be employed here,” he’d say to us, to the guards who had to be nudged back in line, as well as to politicians who came to visit. The warden repeated it—like even he needed to believe it.

  So, no AC and no iced tea.

  “They’re for the movers,” Mom said, patting me on my sweaty head as she moved past. The old lady would probably make me pass up cookies she served at my funeral.

  I noticed there wasn’t a ring of sweat anywhere on her body. How did she do that? Not only that, she was decked out in one of those baby blue summer dresses like she was going to a company picnic.

  I watched her go from one mover to the next, handing each of them a cold, blessed, perfectly sweet drink. I would’ve openly drooled if I had any saliva left. I cursed under my bone-dry breath.

  “James,” I heard my dad say, “come to the backyard, please.”

  At least that took me out of my clipboard duty for a moment. That buoyed my spirits until I thought that maybe it was a ploy to get me to clean latrines or dig a ditch. Not that my father had ever made me do either adult task, but, as you’re about to find out, I had quite the imagination. Maybe scraping bones of dead inmates . . .

  Dad was fiddling with a black tarp when I emerged outdoors, shielding my eyes from the raging sun. I imagined Mercury and Venus getting incinerated when the sun suddenly started sucking in the planets, one by one.

  Dad said, “I thought it was time you had a man’s set of tools.”

  The old man was always trying to get me to take a liking to tinker with everything from a broken toaster to the prison cars on their last leg. In my mind, broken-down vehicles were for the scrap heap, and busted toasters were for blowing up with firecrackers.

  He then moved aside, just enough so I could see what the tarp was hiding. As he yanked the rest of the tarp away, I caught my breath.

  “A four-wheeler?” I asked in wonder. Of course, it was. I wasn’t blind, but I might be suffering the advanced stages of heat exhaustion and hallucinating.

  It was a four-wheeler!

  Imagine the British scum I could mow down with this thing. I pictured my long colonial hair streaming in the wind, howling my rebel yell, hot on the heels of my prey.

  “It needs a little work. I figured we could get it running together. However, it’ll be your responsibility.”

  Without thinking, I rushed forward and wrapped my arms around my father’s waist.

  “I promise, Dad. I’ll take care of it. I promise.”

  I didn’t get the drop-to-his-knee hug. The planets weren’t aligned properly for that. All I got was a pat on the back and a contented grunt.

  “So,” he said, stepping out of my embrace and brushing a bit of dust off the four-wheeler, “a real man should have a name for his vehicle. What do you think, James?”

  I didn’t have to think. I knew. Looking back now, Dad probably wanted me to name it a girl’s name.

  “Marauder,” I said. It was perfect.

  Little did I know the trouble I’d get into on that thing.

  Chapter Five

  Moving-day ended precisely twenty-four hours after we’d arrived. Larry was the only one who’d gotten a full night’s rest. I was haggard but reminded mysel
f that the four-wheeler was waiting. There were so many things to see, so much to explore.

  “That’s it,” Mom said, adjusting the picture of my great-grandfather, the first warden in the Allen family line. He was Dad’s hero; he was mine by default.

  “Impressive job, team,” Dad said, fishing a cigarette out of another fresh pack. He went through his routine of tapping it against the pack, sliding it to the perfect place between his index and middle fingers, and then lighting it. He inhaled and then exhaled, totally unconcerned about the smoke that haloed his children. “We’ve got company coming for dinner.”

  I groaned deep inside, a place Dad couldn’t see or hear. Another night of putting on the perfect son show.

  “I’ll need to pick up a few things,” Mom said diligently. Caretaker, cook, lead unpacker, conflict resolution expert, and hugger of our family, she rarely complained, and never in front of my dad. “I can take the boys with me if you need to work,” she said.

  “That’s okay. I can keep the boys.”

  This was new. There was a proper order to the Allen family arrivals:

  We unpack.

  Dad goes to work.

  If Mom was surprised, she sure as hell didn’t show it. “You’re sure?”

  Dad nodded, blowing a thick stream of smoke up at the ceiling. “I thought we’d go exploring. “

  “Yay, exploring!” Larry said, jumping from one foot to another. He had a Barbie doll in one hand, a gift from an old friend at the last prison. Our only friends were girls, daughters of the assistant wardens. Dad had been trying to pry the doll from Larry for weeks. She was naked and stained with mud, and her hair was a ratty disaster. She looked like a blonde Neanderthal.

  “Okay. The grocery list is on the table if anyone needs to add anything. I’m leaving in ten minutes.”

  Mom left to get ready. She never left the house unless she was fully decked-out in what I would come to identify as proper warden wife attire: respectable, makeup, shoes with a heel, the whole nine yards.

  “Okay, boys. Train leaves in five minutes. Hit the head and put on your shoes,” Dad commanded.

  Our initial exploration turned out to be an inspection of the farthest perimeter of the prison. I should’ve known, but I didn’t care. This expedition gave me a chance to recon my new battlegrounds. I noted fallen logs where enemy snipers could take potshots at my troops. I mentally jotted the lanes of approach that I could lure the redcoats into and slaughter them piecemeal.

  There was an apple orchard in one section of the reservation, the fruit still ripening in the summer sun. Dad lifted Larry to grab one.

  “Don’t eat it,” Dad said. And it wasn’t until that moment that I realized how much joy the idea of Larry suffering a three-hour bout of diarrhea could bring me.

  The stone prison walls were always in view as we made our tour. Grass tickled my chin in some places, and fields of clover covered my shoes in others. I’d tear up that clover doing figure eights and donuts with my four-wheeler. In other words, the place was perfect.

  When Dad finished his inspection, we headed for home. Larry was dragging by then, so Dad hoisted him up on his shoulders. It was amazing how he could keep my brother up there while he puffed away on cigarette after cigarette. It’s like he had a third arm just for smoking. I envied Larry, much like I usually did for his lax life.

  The day was blazing, and I realized I should’ve brought water. Dad didn’t think of stuff like that. Mom did. Dad’s tack was to tough it out. I’m not sure it ever really dawned on him that Larry was a little kid, and I was ten. I suppose it’s hard to understand children when you grow up around men who’ve never experienced childhood themselves.

  “I’m thirsty,” Larry said for the eighty-seventh time.

  “We’ll get some water in a minute,” Dad said.

  We came upon the set of houses we’d seen from a distance on the way out. There were four of them, painted white and neat as a magazine cover. At the first house, a little boy that I guessed was three was running from one end of the porch to the other, his diaper bouncing.

  Someone roared, and the little boy squealed. I almost dove for cover. Maybe it was my imagination coupled with the extreme thirst, but for a second, I thought it was a pterodactyl attack.

  The tall man hulked out of the front door, arms arched and hanging like a looming monster. The little boy squealed again, but he was laughing, trying to get away.

  The blonde man scooped up the kid and played like he was going to tear out the boy’s entrails with his teeth. He nibbled away as I watched in wonder. I know now that this was what a real dad does. At the time, it was strange. And this man, this giant in my eyes, was the movie star of prison workers. He was good looking, like some surfer I’d seen on the commercials of Saturday morning cartoons between G.I. Joe and He-Man.

  The man set the boy on his feet when he saw Dad.

  “Afternoon, Boss. Didn’t see you there.”

  Dad walked forward; his hand extended.

  The men shook and then looked down at us.

  “Hi boys, I’m Denny Bell, assistant warden. This here’s Bobby.” He tickled the little boy who giggled away, nestling his face in his father’s chest.

  I liked this man immediately. There was something about the way he’d greeted us. This wasn’t some guy kissing the warden’s ass by being kind to his sons. This was someone who seemed like he wanted to know us.

  I stepped forward; hand extended as Dad had done.

  “James Michael Allen,” I said. Big important folks always said their full names like that when they wanted to appear significant and essential.

  The assistant warden chuckled and shook my hand, firm but not bone-crushing the way Dad liked to do.

  “Call me Denny, James. At least, if that’s okay with your dad.”

  He looked at Dad, who nodded.

  “You can call me Jimmy.”

  “Say hi to Bobby.”

  “Hi Bobby,” I said reluctantly. I’d learned well from the ass-kissers. Be nice to the kid when you’re trying to get in an adult’s good graces.

  Bobby was put on the ground when he squirmed. Then the kid did something that disgusted me beyond all measure of telling. He ran over and hugged me, hard.

  I braced against it. It was like being hit with a bucket of snot. I felt my face flush as Denny laughed heartily. At least he thought it was funny. Go with it.

  “We’ll see you at dinner?” Dad asked.

  Denny scooped up his child again. “Looking forward to it.” He took a sniff of Bobby’s rear and made a face. “Phew. Better take this one in for an oil change.”

  There were no goodbyes. That wasn’t Dad’s style. He turned and left before I could say goodbye to the man who could quite possibly be the coolest adult I’d ever met.

  As we made our way back home, my dad exhaled smoke in rhythm with each fifth step, and Larry whined like a rusty gate. All I could think about was how I was going to make an excuse to see my new idol again.

  Chapter Six

  I’d showered and changed when Dad announced, loud enough for the whole house to hear, “Family meeting.” He never had to yell. He had one of those voices that cut through air like a spear—a voice primed by years of getting his job done.

  I whipped a comb through my hair, making sure to get a perfect part. I hated having messy hair. It took me enough tries that I heard Dad say, louder this time, “James.”

  “Coming!” I said, huffing in frustration at the moving target that was my hair part. The Allen hair had to have been part of some gypsy curse some five generations before. Off I went, chucking the comb in the sink and tucking in my button-down shirt.

  I was expecting our dinner guests. I was wrong. It was another ceremony I’d completely forgotten about in the excitement of the move-in.

  Three prisoners stood in a straight line on the far side of the living room. They wore blue overalls, none looking particularly scared or overly cocky. I’d learned to avoid both types. The scared
or shifty ones were unstable in my experience, and the cocky ones made you think they were stable.

  “Come here, James.” Dad motioned to a spot next to my mother, who was standing with her hands folded in front of her.

  I hurried to my appointed spot, taking in our staff, as we called them. These were inmates in good standing who were in charge of taking care of our lawn and various other tasks around the house. Working in the warden’s home was supposed to be a good deal for prisoners. Dad always said they’d earned the privilege. I didn’t completely understand that at the time, though I do now. Who wouldn’t want to be outside the prison walls for the day? There’s a reason the poor bastards hang their arms outside the bars.

  “Gentlemen, my name is Warden Allen, and this is my family. My wife, Esther.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” she said.

  “My youngest son, Larry.” Larry waved shyly from behind Mom’s dress. “And our newest arrival, my oldest, James.”

  “You can call me Jimmy,” I said, doing my best to imitate the assuredness of Denny Bell.

  “Starting with you,” Dad said, pointing to the man on the farthest left. “Please tell us your name and your current responsibilities.”

  This man looked very near one hundred years old to my young eyes. He had more wrinkles than an elephant sucking a lemon tree.

  “They call me Harley, Boss. Ma’am. I’m in charge of landscaping for your house and Boss Bell’s.”

  I knew Harley was his last name. All the inmates I’d ever met either had gone by their last names or a nickname.

  The next man stepped forward, hat in his hands.

  “My name’s Cotton, Boss. I take care of the trash for all the houses and any other little things y’all need. Also do the cleaning, inside and out.”

  “Do you know anything about rebuilding four-wheeler engines?” Dad asked.

  My ears perked up at that.

  “No, Boss.”

  My shoulders slumped. If it was gonna be up to Dad to fix the four-wheeler, I was dead out of luck. But the next man saved my day.