The Warden's Son

by C. G. Cooper

  “Beautiful horse,” the man said. “What’s her name?”

  “Marauder,” I said with authority. “You shouldn’t be here.” I made my voice blare from deep inside my chest.

  The man cocked his head to one side like he was trying to see me better. Then I saw the smile play across his face. “But I live here,” he said.

  “You live here?”

  “Of course.”

  I looked all around the green fields sensing the enemy was coming at any moment. I had to save this delusional man.

  “Sir, I’m not sure how you got here, but there are about a billion redcoats headed this way.”

  All he did was make a chuckle. Then his face solidified for the last time. I knew this man.

  “You’re . . . I started to say. “

  Then some invisible force nudged me backward, nearly toppling me over the back of the horse. I held on strenuously, trying to get an eye on whatever it was that had pushed me.

  I tried to speak, but the nudge came again. This one sent me end over end.

  I braced for impact, my entire body stiffening, eyes scrunching shut. The hit never came. Nor did I feel the effect of my terrified steed’s hooves on my head.

  When I opened my eyes, everything was a blur, like I’d rubbed a greasy hand over a pane of glass. I blinked several times. The blur was darker now, in front of my face. Close.

  It was the man looking down at me. But there were no more fields. No more horse. No more sharp uniform.

  “You okay?” Carlisle asked, standing with his yellow and white ball cap in his two hands. My mouth moved, yet no words came out like a breached fish dying.

  “I think maybe you oughta be getting yourself home,” he said.

  He didn’t have to tell me twice. Dad would kill me if he knew I’d fallen asleep in the greenhouse. In good standing or not, you didn’t tread where inmates tread. That’s what he liked to say.

  I wasn’t scared if you can believe that. I’d never been scared of the inmates. At least not the ones that were working at our home. But the heat, the dream, the new place, all of it thrown together put me in the middle of some mushy stew of fear and distrust.

  I whipped up onto my feet, ready to run from the greenhouse. My head reeled.

  “Hey, you okay?”

  I’d heard that question before, hadn’t I?

  I put out a hand to show Carlisle. “I’m . . .”

  That’s when my world tilted again, and all I remember was Carlisle’s face hovering before mine. Things went dark and quiet after that.

  Chapter Eleven

  I finally woke, screaming; I had no idea where I was. I’m not proud of it. I cried like I was five. It was dark, and the smells were new. Was I in a dungeon? Had I been captured on the battlefield?

  A light flashed on overhead, and I had to shield my eyes from the blinding glare.

  “James.”

  “Mom?”

  “Honey, are you okay?”

  Big question. I wasn’t okay. My head felt like my imaginary stallion had kicked it.

  “What happened?”

  “You passed out. Carlisle brought you home.”

  “Carlisle,” I said in wonder.

  “How many times have I told you to make sure you drink enough water? You were dehydrated, silly. It was lucky for you that Carlisle found you.”

  Dehydrated? That would explain some things. I’d been on the edge of dehydration before. Once at the age of seven, I went exploring the new reservation. I’d chased a rabbit. It had to have been a half a mile. I remembered panting in the hot sun, the searing thirst, and the realization that I hadn’t had any water the whole morning.

  I didn’t feel thirsty now, just worn down. Like I’d run a marathon, barefooted, with a hundred-pound pack on and a vice clamp on each knee.

  “We had to call the doctor. He put some fluids in.” Her hand brushed over my forearm and stopped on something—a bandage.

  “They put a needle in me?”

  Mom nodded. “You didn’t squirm at all. Nevertheless, it took a couple of sticks.”

  I was brave about a lot of things. Needles were not one of them. There’d been more than one occasion when I’d bolted from a doctor’s office only to be found an hour later in some janitor’s closet. I remember sitting in there vowing to belt the next doc in the nose who tried to stab me with one of those evil things.

  “Am I gonna be okay?”

  “Of course, honey. You need to take better care of yourself on these hot days.”

  WD-40 and a canteen. Duly noted.

  Mom stroked my forehead. Her hand was perfectly cool and soothing, a tonic I’d remember in later years.

  “When can I go play?”

  Mom laughed. “It’s nighttime, James.”

  “What?”

  How long had I been out?

  “Why don’t you rest, honey? I’ll bring you some dinner if you’re hungry.”

  At the mention of food, my stomach grumbled loud enough for Mom to hear.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” she said. “A grilled cheese, okay?”

  Grilled cheese, okay? Does the Pope sprinkle holy water on his Cheerios?

  “Yes, please,” I said, trying to still the tsunami of saliva in my mouth.

  Mom passed her thumb over my cheek.

  “Okay. You relax. Dinner in ten minutes.”

  After she left the room, it wasn’t long before I was only half-thinking about grilled cheese. The other half of me was thinking about my dream and why Carlisle had been in it. That never had and would never happen again. You wake up from a dream, and there’s the person you were talking to on the other side.

  The other side, I thought to myself.

  I’d need to think about what it all meant.

  Chapter Twelve

  I couldn’t gather the nerve to approach the greenhouse for another three days. I saw Carlisle but avoided his gaze awkwardly, like a guy who’d been caught doing something unbiblical in a girls’ locker room. I’m glad he didn’t say anything to me. I’m not sure what I would’ve said back.

  That didn’t mean I didn’t watch him. Like the spy I wanted to be, I hid behind trees, in gullies and along creek beds, always watching. I noticed things I hadn’t before. The rotation of the guards. The coming and going of the inmates who worked in staff housing. The same flocks of birds that seemed to show up at the same time every day to snack on worms, bugs, or the bits of bread I’d bring from home.

  Dad never said anything about my fainting. Health concerns were Mom’s domain. It was apparent that I was not in any trouble. I wondered if Dad even knew I’d fallen asleep in the greenhouse, oblivious to the world. Afterward, when I was feeling better, I didn’t get a whooping.

  It didn’t make any sense. Time to figure out the mystery.

  So, one day at lunch, I chattered away as Mom only half listened. I was doing my best to recite what I’d read the night before in my latest Captain America comic. The old lady was hooked. That’s when I sprung the question.

  “Hey, Mom? Where did Carlisle find me when I passed out?”

  Boom. From Cap to Carlisle in twelve seconds flat.

  “Ooooh,” Larry said.

  I threw him a dirty look.

  “I told you,” Mom answered, not looking up from the magazine she was reading.

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “I didn’t?”

  “Mom . . .” I waited for her to look up.

  “What is it, honey?”

  I had a plan. All great spies have plans.

  “I think I dropped one of my G.I. Joes. I can't find it. I thought it might be where Carlisle found me.”

  Total lie, yet Mom bought it whole hog.

  “I’m pretty sure he said it was in the fields. I’m not sure where. Maybe you should ask him.”

  That was my cue. Lunch was forgotten, and I sped out of the room. Mom had given me permission to interrogate.

  Carlisle, the bell tolls for thee.

 
; Chapter Thirteen

  I found him in the greenhouse. It wasn’t precisely a recon mission. Other than the odd helping hand he lent to other inmates; his life was that greenhouse. Everything was neat and in its place.

  He was wearing his hat when I found him. It was the first time I noticed that it was spotless. Not a speck of dirt. Not a ring of old sweat. In a place where earth and sweat were as common as the flowers they produced, I found that odd.

  It was also the first time I noticed faded letters on the front of the ball cap: S.D. Another mystery.

  He was in the middle of shoveling dirt from an old wheelbarrow into a bucket when I made my appearance. I’d been watching him for a good ten minutes.

  “Whatcha doing?” I asked as casually as could be.

  Carlisle looked up from another shovel full, squinting in the sun.

  “Just bringing in some good dirt.”

  “Good dirt?”

  He nodded. “Yep. There’s good dirt, and there’s bad dirt. Found a good patch down that way.” He motioned with his index finger to the fields that were my playground. “Right mix for the plants to grow. I think it used to be a cow pasture.”

  He patted down the bucket of dirt then stretched up to his full height. Carlisle wasn’t a tall man, not like some of the guards I’d met, but the way he stretched made me think that he could touch heaven if he wanted to.

  “So, is it cow poop?” I asked, immediately chiding myself for sounding so juvenile. I knew it was called manure.

  He chuckled. “I’m no expert. Just know what makes the plants grow.”

  We stood there for what seemed like an hour. It was probably thirty seconds. I started to sweat through my shirt; however, Carlisle didn’t look the least bit uncomfortable.

  Finally, I mustered up the nerve. “Can I see the plants?”

  He shook his head slowly. “Don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  “It’s okay. My mom knows I’m talking to you.”

  Now he looked at me. Like, really looked at me.

  “Did you need to talk to me about something?”

  Here it was. Tell the truth or lie? I was better at the latter when under interrogation.

  But this was my interrogation, dammit. I needed answers.

  “Why did you tell my parents you found me in the fields?”

  I’d attempted to dart him with a verbal dagger; instead, it’d sounded like a slurpy noodle coming out. Didn’t matter. It was out in the open, and I was happy to see his face scrunched in thought.

  “Well, I guess I thought you might get in trouble.”

  “In trouble?”

  “Sure. For falling asleep in the greenhouse.”

  Maybe so, Carlisle. Or perhaps you didn’t want my dad to inspect the greenhouse. Could be I’d been on the right trail after all. Come clean, Carlisle. You’re hiding something, aren’t you? What is it? A knife? A gun? A bomb? I got you dead to rights, Carlisle. You’re sunk.

  That’s something a better interrogator, one who didn’t have a mouth full of marbles and a brain-full of Sugar Pops, would say.

  Instead, I said, “You were afraid of getting in trouble.”

  Okay, not the pithiest of phrases, but it came out the way I wanted, like an accusation.

  He did his grave nod again. I had him now.

  “I can see how you might think that; still, this is my greenhouse. I’m allowed to be in there. You’re not.”

  Shoot. Carlisle was three steps ahead. I felt my hold on the subject slipping.

  “But I’m a kid,” I countered. “You could’ve gotten in trouble for having a kid in the greenhouse.”

  I’d heard the nasty things mean inmates did to kids, like touching them in places and stuff like that. I’d seen their eyes, the bad ones. They weren’t the same as Carlisle’s.

  Again, the nod. Slow. Thoughtful. “I can see how that might happen. Is that really what’s bothering you? That I could’ve gotten in trouble?”

  Dammit. Carlisle was twisting my words again, using them against me. Buckle down, Jimmy. What would General Washington do against a wily double agent?

  “Why did you help me?” I said, sounding like the ten-year-old I was.

  Nod. Smile.

  “You’re a good kid, Jimmy. But you’re adventurous. I mean, what kid your age isn’t? All the same, there ain’t no use getting in trouble the first week you’re here, right?”

  He smiled as if he’d been in my shoes.

  I nodded without thinking, without realizing I was mimicking the gravity of the act.

  “Besides,” he said, “I think God’s got a plan for you, Jimmy.”

  That struck me like a barn door in the face. “What’s God got to do with it?”

  The Allen family could in no way be called devout; anyhow, I knew enough not to bring up God in idle conversation, or, God forbid, use his name in vain. Dad never went to church with us, but he drew the line at cursing God. That was enough to get your mouth washed out with soap, or worse, whooped good.

  Again, that languid smile, like he’d seen every inch of the world and knew all the wrinkles he could balance on.

  “God’s got everything to do with it.” He looked from the ground to the sky like that was enough explanation.

  “James!”

  I ignored Mom’s call. Stared down Carlisle instead, waiting for further explanation. But he was still looking up at the sky.

  “James! Time to go!”

  I rolled my eyes. “Coming, Mom!” Then to Carlisle. “Thanks.”

  “Thanks? For what?”

  “For helping me.”

  He looked straight into me. It didn’t feel so foreign this time.

  “My pleasure, Jimmy. Come around any time, as long as it’s okay with your parents.”

  I nodded, humbled by his invitation.

  As I walked away, I felt as discombobulated as I had after a spin on the Whirling Dervish at the old county fair in New York.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Rockstar” might not be the technical term for what Dad was, nevertheless that’s what he was. We knew so because of the praises we’d heard about him. If they’d never reached our ears, we might have thought Dad some schlub lost in bureaucratic shuffling of personnel throughout the country. He never spoke of why they wanted him in so many places. It wasn’t because he was the youngest federal prison warden in the U.S., although he was that too. No, they wanted him because Dad was what you might call a “fixer.” That’s not a technical term either.

  Say a prison has a problem, anything from gangs, a booming drug trade, to incompetence—they send in Dad. He breaks up the gangs, sending members to opposite sides of the country. He crushes drug running by setting up new systems, changing up the schedule, anything to keep offending inmates on their toes. A bored inmate is a liability, he says, and so he keeps them busy. And like a shark always in motion to stay alive, Dad charges ahead, fixing and moving, his wake a swirling tendril of order.

  We couldn’t have been in Virginia more than a couple of weeks when the first changes rolled in. First, I noticed one guard, then another, take their final walk out of prison. Then the prison buses started rolling in and carting off select prisoners by the half-dozen.

  New faces appeared. New guards. New prisoners. Soon another dinner where I’d man my perch in the bathroom and listen in for information.

  Back then, when my imagination revved on the tiniest stimulant, I thought there was always the chance I might overhear some lurid detail about some inmate’s behavior, perhaps some gratuitous gore, or better yet, a blow-by-blow account of a riot or jailbreak.

  The dinner came. I remember it in perfect detail.

  Three guards showed up in suits. Wearing a suit and tie was expected at a dinner with the warden. This was official. I’ll bet some of them never wore those suits again until they buried a friend or got buried themselves. I remember seeing one guard with a sales tag sticking out of his pants leg.

  They showed up five minutes early.
They'd gotten the memo. The first two guards were as vanilla as guards went. They were young and eager and too new to know the difference.

  The third . . . how can I put this? He was a muscle covered in freckles, all topped off with a mound of curly red hair—Alfred E. Neuman on steroids.

  After shaking Dad’s hand, he reached a hand down to me.

  “Evening, little buddy,” he sang. His voice was slick and phony.

  “James, this is Brady Bruce.”

  Even his name sounded fake, like a superhero alias.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bruce,” I said just like I’d been taught. Firm handshake. Look a man in the eye. Dad’s training had become part of my musculature.

  “Firm handshake you got there, little buddy.”

  The first iteration of ‘little buddy’ was annoying. Now it was like a dull razor blade scraping down my arm. I tried to let go of his hand. He wouldn’t let it go.

  “It sure is nice of your parents to have us to dinner.”

  I tried to pull away. Dad didn’t notice because he was talking to the other guards. My body was threatening to go into panic mode, and my brain scrambled for something to do. Be strong like Dad. This man with his fake, oiled voice wasn’t going to mess with me.

  “Can I get you a beer, Mr. Bruce?”

  At that, he brightened, spell broken.

  “Don’t mind if you do.” He pointed at me and winked. I choked back vomit.

  I could tell by his brief scowl that Dad had heard that one. Mom reserved the beer for guests we knew.

  “I’ll be right back, Mr. Bruce,” I said, Johnny-on-the-spot.

  I skittered into the kitchen, quick to wash my hands, twice. It felt like it wasn’t enough. There was something about Brady Bruce that I didn’t like.

  Did you ever touch a cockroach? For a long time after, you can’t shake the feeling that you shouldn’t have.

  Chapter Fifteen