The Warden's Son

by C. G. Cooper

  “I know something about engines, Boss.”

  This man had skin the color of caramel, something I imagined the natives of some faraway tropical island having.

  “Have some experience with that?” Dad asked.

  “Yes, Boss.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Carlisle, Boss. I’m the gardener. I tend the greenhouse out back.”

  “A greenhouse. Imagine that,” Mom said.

  Carlisle nodded respectfully. I noted that he held a different hat than his fellow inmates. While theirs matched their jumpsuits, Carlisle’s was white with a yellow bill. He met my eyes, and for a split second, I was sure he looked into my soul. I didn’t break eye contact. Dad wouldn’t like that; nevertheless, I squirmed inside.

  I knew I’d have to avoid this one. I can’t explain why. Carlisle wasn’t intimidating; it was just . . .

  Did you ever get caught doing something you shouldn’t be doing? Ever look at their eyes?

  “I’d like a walkthrough with each of you in the coming days,” Dad said. “We’ll figure one another out as we go. As for you two,” he was looking at Larry and me, “be respectful, and stay out of the way. You understand?”

  I nodded. I knew the rules.

  What you have to understand is that there was no chance anything would or could happen with these inmates because they’d been vetted repeatedly. They were either a lifer or soon getting out. Dad insisted that we were respectful to them at all times like he was. He often told us that they’d done bad things to get in prison, but that they were doing their number, and they were still men, fellow human beings who should be treated like any person out in the world.

  “It was very nice to meet you, gentlemen. If there’s anything you need, anything that might help this place run a little smoother, you know where to find me.”

  The staff took this as it was, their dismissal. As the inmates filed out, I breathed easier. I didn’t like the way that Carlisle had looked at me. Not at me, in me. I shivered and almost startled when Mom touched me on the shoulder.

  “Are you okay, James?”

  “Yeah, just cold.”

  She looked at me with that face that told me she knew my mind was elsewhere, however, she didn’t pry. That was the good thing about my parents. As long as I painted inside the lines, they pretty much left me to myself. That’s exactly why things soon went farther south than Antarctica.

  Chapter Seven

  Dinner with the head guards and assistant wardens was more of the same. Dad liked to introduce his family, and no particulars of their jobs were spoken until Larry and I left. That was fine with me, at least until I was out of the room.

  Denny Bell had taken the time to remark on how sharp my little brother and I looked.

  “You’ll be fine young men; you know that.”

  He didn’t tousle our hair or anything like that. He must’ve known tousling a kid’s hair is like serving garlic bread to Dracula. Even then I knew Denny Bell knew a lot more about kids than most adults.

  “Come along, boys,” Mom said, lifting Larry from his booster seat.

  I noted the hush after the polite nods. I hadn’t absorbed much of anything during dinner. They’d gone around the table to introduce themselves, but I’d grown weary of introductions. After a while, they all start to blend into one another, and one guy’s history belongs to any other guy’s past. The only thing that differs is the name, and that you forget anyway. It was all I could do not to fall asleep in my salad.

  I know, of course, hindsight being the nasty little bugger it is, I should’ve listened. It might have given me the insight that could’ve prevented what was to come.

  “Have a good night, fellas,” Denny said. None of the others said a thing.

  I dragged my leaden legs to my room, groaning at the thought of having to change into my pajamas.

  “Brush your teeth and use the bathroom,” Mom said, poking her head in my room.

  Like I was going to chew some tobacco and crap the bed. “Okay, Mom.”

  I don’t know how long it took me to get ready, but I’m pretty sure the toothbrush did nothing but make a gentle pass over my teeth. A dentist would be appalled.

  “James,” I heard Mom say.

  “Yeah?”

  “Honey, open your eyes.”

  I did, blinking away the blur.

  “I’m ready for bed, Mom.”

  “Oh?”

  There was something in her voice. Amusement?

  I blinked through my exhaustion, and that’s when I saw it. I was sitting on the toilet, pants down. I’d fallen asleep.

  “Get out!” I screamed, scrambling off the pot and re-pantsing myself.

  Mom laughed and left me to my embarrassment.

  I finished my business, mumbling curses, then washed my hands. It was when I shut off the water that I noticed it. Voices.

  Not shouting from the other room. Not whispered like a secret. No, the voices were clear as a bird chirping on the spring wind, and they were coming from the vent next to the bathtub.

  I bent down and put my ear to it.

  “Jones is a good man. On the other hand, when he’s been on a bender, you wanna keep him away from the inmates.”

  “I’ll talk to him.” Dad’s voice. It sounded like he was taking notes. “Any other delinquents?” I knew what ‘delinquents’ meant because Dad always said it a certain way, like a magic word that would make terrible monsters appear. It meant nothing good.

  “James?” It was Mom calling me from my room.

  I knocked my head on the towel rack as I stood.

  “Ouch.” And muffled, hell, damn, and a host of other heresies in the crook of my arm.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay.”

  I rubbed my head to ease the pain as I walked into the room. Mom gave me the usual hug and goodnight kiss, waiting for me to get safely under the covers. I had been tired mere minutes before, so much so that I’d made a bed out of the damn commode. But now my mind raced. I had a secret conduit to the dining room that would facilitate the proper execution of one of my favorite pastimes: spying.

  Chapter Eight

  The days passed and, pretty much, I was left to myself. I explored as much of the reservation as my legs would allow. It was perfectly safe. At regular intervals, I’d wave to the prison guards rolling by in their battered trucks. The patrols were a mainstay in any prison we lived. It was as natural to me as a passing mailman is to you.

  It was one extra hot day that I came across the find of a lifetime. A creek.

  To a ten-year-old boy, a creek is Valhalla. It is the alpha and omega of existence. How shall I even begin to explain the wonders of a creek?

  And not just any creek. It started ankle deep. Perfect for turning over rocks and finding crawdads. There were places where the water was knee-deep. Not deep enough to swim in, but perfect for sitting down, cooling off, and contemplating life’s mysteries.

  The water was divinely fresh and cool that day. A fish, the size of my hand, whisked away as I squatted in the deepest place I could find. My head sunk below the creek’s bank, invisible to anyone looking from ground level. I turned and crept to the side, grasping the lip as I imagined crawling along by the skirts of the Hudson River as a Revolutionary War sharpshooter, my well-used long rifle in tow.

  The prisons where we’d lived employed plenty of military vets. I’d overheard their stories. Some were boastful, like when they talked about going boozing, picking up new friends in what they called a whorehouse. I didn’t know what that meant at the time. I assumed it was some kind of community club. I’m glad I wasn’t ever asked to join.

  Over the preceding years, I’d pieced together the lives of men who’d served in the military, especially the grunts. They had the filthiest mouths and, boy, could they tell a story.

  I imagined I was one of them now, creeping along the streambed, slow as summer, keeping my eye out for the top general in the British army. If I could tak
e him out, the war might be over. I’d be a hero.

  No general with his entourage appeared though someone else did. It was Harley, our aged groundskeeper. He didn’t notice where I was squatting, and that was fine with me. He seemed to be looking for something. His eyes scanned the ground as he moved gingerly through an unruly patch of long grass. Then he bent down and came up again holding something. A huge grin spread over his weathered face. He stuck whatever was in his hand into one of his pockets. Then he moved on, oblivious to my spying eyes.

  What had he picked up? A weapon he’d stashed in the grass? Maybe someone on the outside had put it there. Once again, my imagination tore down the path of possibilities. This was my chance to break a case wide open.

  I could see the headlines now: “Ten-Year-Old Boy Uncovers Weapon-Smuggling Operation at Federal Prison.”

  That fertile imagination pushed me to take my first risk in my new home, so I decided to follow Harley. I kept a safe distance, like a smart spy, but a piercing sound dashed my operation. The whistle went off at lunchtime and 5 pm. This shrill sound was the lunch whistle, which meant inmates had to come back to the prison for a headcount. And precisely on cue, Harley turned, ambling his way back to the prison. I noted the bulge in his pocket.

  This was it. I’d show my dad that I was worthy of praise. Everyone would talk about the kid who caught a prisoner smuggling a weapon, maybe even a bomb, back into the prison.

  “Have a good lunch, Jimmy,” Harley said without looking my way.

  I popped up, trying to play off my surprise.

  I managed to blurt out, “You too, Harley.”

  I’m not sure, but I think I saw the edges of a smile as he walked away.

  Outstanding work, Mr. Bond. Spotted by the weak eyes of a two-hundred-year-old man.

  Chapter Nine

  I didn’t let the shame of my uncovering last long. Shaking off the unease that I was spotted so easily, I gave Harley a good cushion of space. There were plenty of trees to hide behind. I kept telling myself that I’d been careless. A simple mistake. He’d probably seen me in the stream long before I’d seen him.

  So off I went, tailing the suspect, images in my head of photo-ops with the mayor, maybe even the governor.

  “You’re a hero, Jimmy,” I whispered to myself.

  Harley never looked back. He made it all the way to the greenhouse behind our place before he finally did something suspicious. Instead of continuing straight to the prison for lunch headcount, Harley detoured. Then he did something that sealed his fate in my eyes. He looked back once, then again.

  “I’ve got you now, Harley,” I said under my breath.

  He slipped inside the greenhouse and was back out in no time. It was long enough for him to stash the loot. He moved faster now, on his way back to the stone wall.

  I waited for what felt like an eternity. I needed to make sure Harley was gone. I didn’t need two screw-ups in one day. General Washington would never abide such a pitiful spy in his employ.

  Patience was not one of my strong suits. Before long, the pull of curiosity and anticipation of heroic accolades got me to the door of the greenhouse. I hadn’t been inside—Dad’s orders. But Dad was at work, and I was here. Our staff was getting counted with the rest of the inmates. This was my chance. Do it.

  The greenhouse door creaked like an old lady’s hip. My face scrunched in extreme concentration. How did spies deal with squeaky hinges? They probably carried a small can of WD-40 around with them as part of their spy kit. Yeah. I’d have to remember that. I’d have to remind myself to build a spy kit first. Then I would have the WD-40.

  I was inside. The humidity of the place was almost too much. Almost. My duty to the prison, no, to my country, pulled me forward. Maybe I’d get a medal. Or my own comic book. A movie. The Dangerous Adventures of Jimmy Allen. That sounded good.

  The greenhouse seemed larger on the inside. It was roughly the size of our house, with rows and rows of raised garden beds. The only plants I recognized were the tomatoes, the baby fruits plumping up in the regulated heat.

  Sweat beaded all over my body. I ignored the discomfort, taking pleasure in the fact that spies of the past had to endure much worse. No water. Little food. Scurvy.

  There was a room at the far end of the greenhouse. I snuck that way, glad that the fresh and cool humid earth beneath my feet was soft, and not a sound hit my ears. I made it to the far room and found what looked like a tiny office. There was a cot on one side, a single slab of wood balanced on cinder blocks on the other. Books lay in neat piles on the makeshift desk labeled Today’s Gardening, Tomatoes on A Budget, Herbs, and so forth.

  This small room had to be Carlisle’s domain. He was the greenhouse keeper. What was Harley doing here?

  No pictures on the walls. No knickknacks like I’d seen on a rare prison tour. The space was tidy. Too tidy. It was barren of anything personal.

  Abandoning all caution, I sat down on the cot, figuring that a good snoop imagined himself in the shoes of a criminal to crack the big case. The bunk was far from comfortable and squeaked under my weight (WD-40 next time!). My feet didn’t even touch the ground.

  I sat back against the wall, my legs dangling off the edge of the cot, looking all around.

  From that angle, I could see things I hadn’t at first. Carlisle used the hollow insides of the desk cinder blocks as storage.

  Jackpot.

  I rose from the cot and closed in on what I knew would be the earth-shattering proof of a prison-wide conspiracy.

  The first nook held three empty plastic honey bear bottles. Strange yet not entirely out of place. I’ve come to know that prisoners hoard all manner of things and are experts in crafting doodads out of scraps. Nothing nefarious in the honey bottles. Just an inmate saving for a rainy day. I moved on.

  The next cinder block held a stack of worn paper. I used my shirt to pick up the top bundle. Fingerprints! (I was ignorant of the fact that I’d touched half a zillion things along the way.)

  The paper had row upon row of the neatest print I’d ever seen. The handwriting was so immaculate it looked computer-generated. I scoured the notes for escape plans, guard tower exploitation schemes, or maybe even an assassination. The list ran like this:

  Day 1: melon seeds planted.

  Day 4: seedlings sprouted, 2-mm height.

  And on and on and on.

  So, it was some sort of code.

  On second thought, just some boring notes on gardening.

  It wasn’t until the very last cinder block that I found it, the proof that would make me a hero in Dad’s eyes. First, I slowly pulled out the wire, careful not to damage or set off any attachments. This thing had to be dangerous. Why else would Harley stick it way in the back of the cinder block hollow?

  I tried to steady my breaths, but I’m pretty sure I was close to hyperventilating.

  Then it was out and sitting in my hands: a metal object the size of a coaster, wires coiled underneath, and a plug on the backside.

  A bomb. I lifted it over my head so I could see underneath. No C-4 or sticks of dynamite. However, that didn’t matter. This device was a bomb. Had to be.

  No sense in tipping my hand now. I was onto Harley and Carlisle.

  I had to work this thing carefully. I’d come to Dad with scant evidence of conspiracies in the past, and he’d been less than thrilled. There was the garbage caper in Kansas (a thieving raccoon). The cafeteria theft ring in Wyoming (an inventory screw-up in the number of fruit cups ordered). But this . . .

  I’d have to build my case. Harley was a mere pawn. A gofer. A lackey. It was Carlisle; he was the head man. I’d track his every move. I’d take notes and present them to Dad when I was ready.

  With the nuclear detonator back in its place, I sat back on the cot and dreamed of glory. I lay back and imagined how Dad would look at me with the same respect he had for his grandfather, my great-grandfather. The legend. He’d served in the First World War, earned all kinds of medals I didn’t un
derstand, and then come home to be the first warden in family history. Revered, my great-grandfather, whose name I now wore, went on to do many great things in the federal prison system. He’d broken up riots. He’d saved correctional officers. He’d even met the President.

  That’s what I wanted. All summed up in one word: GLORY.

  I closed my eyes and let the dreams take me. And before long, I was pulled to sleep.

  The ace spy at work.

  Chapter Ten

  I’ve always had vivid dreams. Mom still tells stories about when I was five, and I’d come running at full speed out of my bedroom screaming about dragons or headless knights. Family lore says that the first time I did this, Dad actually pulled a gun thinking a prisoner had somehow snuck into the house. Sorry, Dad, just dragons.

  The dream I found myself in now was no different. I could touch every color and savor every taste. This time I was in a green field that stretched as far as the tangerine horizon. I was riding a white stallion, my revolutionary uniform every bit as fit as good old George Washington’s. I had a ragged American flag in my left hand. The framed edges snapped in the wind as I rode at full tilt. In my right hand was my ever-present officer’s saber, curved like the dragoons of legend. Ah, I was in my element, charging to some as-of-yet unseen foe who likely would be slaughtered with my approach.

  A shadow came into view. The silhouette materialized into a man as I got closer. A dark man. He raised his hand like an old friend welcoming me home on a rickety porch. I sensed no danger, and as I approached, I saw no weapons.

  The man was familiar; still, I couldn’t place him. His face morphed from solid to liquid and then back to solid, and became an amalgamation of faces I’d seen before.

  My horse skidded to a stop. Then my imposing steed showed the flare I was famous for on the dream-land battlefield by rearing up on its hind legs with a bellowing neigh. We settled back down to Earth, and the dark man’s face had changed again. He was wearing stained overalls, and I could smell the sweat of a long day’s work coming off him. I was too polite to wrinkle my nose, so I tipped my hat to him.