The Warden's Son

by C. G. Cooper

  Dinner was a bust. I sat in the bathroom the entire time, head next to my listening vent.

  Dad talked about his expectations and where he saw the prison going in the coming months. He didn’t blather. Straight to the point. He never discussed details that weren’t needed.

  There were one or two times when Brady Bruce chimed in. I stiffened at the sound of his voice, hoping I’d hear Dad jump up from the table and fire him on the spot.

  But that didn’t happen. Instead, Bruce droned on for minutes about his old prisons. There was a lot of kissing up in his storytelling, and that made me dislike him even more.

  “You would’ve liked Pennsylvania, Warden,” he said. “Best darned peach cobbler in the system. No offense to Mrs. Allen.” I could hear the wink.

  And that's how it went. No secrets. No orders. Just business.

  By the time they finished dinner and said their goodbyes, I was on my way to bed, yawning the whole way.

  I was midway through another yawn, eyes closed, when I ran into someone.

  My eyes snapped open, fully awake now.

  “Hey there, little buddy!”

  He reached down and did the dreaded tousle of hair. I was too tired to punch him in the nuts.

  “Headed to bed?” he asked when he finished the tousling.

  No genius, I’m going to meet the President.

  I nodded like a deaf-mute. Bruce looked around appreciatively. “Nice place you guys got here.” Then, for the first time, I heard the bite in his voice. That bitter tinge that I’d come to identify as his calling card. “Sure would be nice if I could have a place like this.”

  His eyes flashed with enough animosity to make me take a step back. And just like that, it was gone. Back to syrupy niceness.

  “Hey, I’m sorry, little buddy.” Like he realized he’d let the mask slip. “I was looking for the bathroom.”

  “Back there,” I said.

  “Thanks. Hey, you didn’t stink up the place, did you?” The point and the wink again.

  He chuckled and loped off. I stood at the spot in concrete shoes. In the briefest encounter, Brady Bruce had somehow defiled our home. I tried to shake it off as I got changed for bed and tried to push away the dread as I clicked off the light. I didn’t wish to slip into those dreams.

  But when I finally got to the core of my “imaginative state,” Brady Bruce was there waiting, smiling, beckoning. The wink. The tousle of hair. The mask of niceness. The goop in the voice. This night would belong to Brady Bruce.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The next morning, I was dragging like an old hound dog. I should’ve stayed in bed. It was summer, and Mom wouldn’t have cared. But that would’ve given the win to the baby-faced guard of my latest nightmare. Brady Bruce’s look had unnerved me. Even when I first met him, his face looked like an oversized baby. I get it. Babies are cute. On the other hand, take that kind of face and blow it up to the size of an adult, and you have yourself something quite hideous to behold. All bulging muscle under his suit and baby face up top.

  I shuffled my way to the kitchen, barely acknowledging Mom. Then I plopped into my customary seat at the table and began shoveling cereal into my mouth like I was clearing rubble.

  As I was going in for my last bite, Mom finally chimed in. “How did you sleep, honey?”

  “Okay.”

  She didn’t look up from her book, or she’d have seen my frown.

  “Big plans for today?”

  “Just going outside.”

  She lowered the book. “I have to go to the store, say in an hour. Do you want to come?”

  My ears perked up at the question. Body juices flowing to my brain. “Can we go to the toy store?”

  I’d been planning the run. There was a list of things I needed.

  “Only the grocery store, this time.”

  I slumped back into my chair. “Nah, I’ll stay here.”

  “You sure? We could get ice cream?”

  Not even ice cream, that Prozac of the spirit, could lift me out of my funk that day.

  “No thanks,” I said, and rose from the table to take my cereal bowl to the sink.

  “Okay,” Mom said. “But if you’re staying home, I need you to keep Larry.”

  Not even ice cream . . .

  “Come on, Mom,” I whined.

  “You’ll be fine, James. Let him tag along.”

  I couldn’t understand why Larry needed a chaperone, what with roving patrols going by every ten minutes, neighbors within earshot, and staff inmates outside.

  “Mom,” I said, intonation like I was casting a spell.

  “Now, James. I haven’t asked you since we moved in. Besides, it’d be good to spend time with your brother. He wants to be like you, you know.”

  Of course, I knew that. It’s one of the things I hated about my little brother.

  “Fine,” I said.

  “Good. I’ll leave lunch just in case I’m gone longer.”

  Just like that, my planned day of finding a sweet shady spot outside in which I’d fall asleep to the sounds of nature was dashed. Babysitting. I was no babysitter. I wasn’t even going to get paid for it!

  Mom checked in before she left, Larry on her heels.

  “You two be nice to each other, okay?”

  Larry rushed into my room. He picked up two G.I. Joes that were locked in a death match wrestle move.

  “Hey, don’t touch!” I yelled.

  “You boys have fun,” Mom said, already on her way to the front door.

  I watched Larry for a while, too tired to make him stop defiling my possessions with his snotty fingers and polluting my room with his presence. I should’ve gotten back into bed and closed my eyes. That would have been the “smart” thing to do. So would faking a coma. But after all, I didn’t always pick the smart thing to do.

  “Jimmmmmy?”

  The whine made me itch all over.

  “What is it, brat?”

  “Want to go outside?”

  To give him credit, Larry had put the G.I. Joes back in their previous death-match positions. Now he stood there, dancing in place like I was holding him up.

  “Fine. Let me get changed.”

  Larry didn’t leave.

  “You gonna watch me, pervert?”

  “What’s a ‘pervert’?”

  “It’s a boy who likes to wear dresses and eat slugs.”

  Larry rushed from the room and closed the door dutifully.

  “Well, what now?” I asked to the air as I slipped out of my pajamas and into my play clothes.

  That’s when the idea came. In hindsight, the plan was ill-timed and wasn’t thought-out.

  “Hey, Larry!”

  “Yeeaahhhh?”

  “Wanna play in the fort?”

  “Yeah!”

  Little did I know that his exuberance to tag along would be my first real mistake in Virginia. A real doozy.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When we stepped outside, the muggy summer day was in a high hitch. It swooped down on us like a dousing of warm water.

  Larry ran out the door, seemingly oblivious to the heat. He had a bucket of army men in his hand.

  “Come on, Jimmy!”

  “Yeah, yeah. Keep your diaper on.”

  It was cooler in the cabin fort, but not by much. My head was already itching with prickling sweat when I stepped inside.

  By the time our first round of playing hide and seek was done, my back was soaked. My idea was also seeping away. Maybe a day inside with air conditioning would be better.

  “I’m the good guy. You’re the bad guy,” Larry said, tagging me and running into the next room of the fort.

  An exaggerated sigh left my lips. Then I perked up at the thought of soaking my feet in the refreshing stream.

  “Alright,” I said, “you go hide, and I’ll find you. Don’t come out until I find you, okay?”

  “Okay!” came Larry’s muffled voice from around the corner.

  I counted to twe
nty out loud. And then, “Ready or not, here I come!”

  I made a real production of stomping around. I knew where Larry had gone.

  “Man, where is he?” I asked aloud, stomping around some more, huffing and puffing like a method actor. That went on for another couple of minutes. Then I put the crux of my plan in place, padding to the front door as quietly as I could.

  I gave an Oscar-worthy, “Man, Larry sure is good playing hide-and-seek,” and then I was outside.

  Figuring it was best to make sure he didn’t go anywhere; I locked the latch. Larry would be safe for the few minutes I was away getting some peace and quiet.

  My first stop was the creek, and oh, was the water gloriously cold. I don’t know how long I sat there savoring the feel up to my knees. But the sun had moved, and an annoying ray was hitting me square in the back. That wouldn’t do. So, I slipped under a tree that looked like it’d been tailor-made to my size. I mean, it had one of those curved nooks and everything. I slid into it like it was a La-Z-Boy, savoring every inch of the shade. Ah, this was the good life. Free of annoyance. Free of responsibility. Free.

  I figured I’d close my eyes for a few and then go back to fetch Larry. A neon sign in my head had buzzed to life and was blaring brightly. It said: LUNCH.

  When my eyes shut, I went straight to my dreams. Pleasant dreams this time, thankfully. No Brady Bruce and his bobblehead terror.

  I was returning from the second Battle at Saratoga, having forced Burgoyne’s men to retreat and Burgoyne to surrender. When asked why he did so, he said, “It was that Allen kid. He wouldn’t let up.”

  As I marched back to town, I heard the people cheering. The celebration for the return of their war hero was beginning.

  That was off in the distance. Here, it was only me and my two friends, Peace and Quiet.

  The scream ripped me from my serenity.

  “Help!”

  I was still coming out of my trance, however awake enough to be cognizant of the fact that the sun had moved even more.

  “Help me! Oh, my baby!”

  That was Mom.

  I bolted from the tree, leaving my shoes behind. Thoughts of evil inmates ripping my mom to shreds flashed through me. I had no idea what I would do, but when you hear that sound, that utter terror from someone you know to be steadfast and not prone to exaggeration, it sends a shiver of cold through you so thoroughly that you either run away or run towards it.

  I made it to the greenhouse just as Carlisle was emerging. He matched my pace immediately.

  “You know what’s going on?” he asked as we ran.

  “Mom,” was all I said. The heat was pressing, and my adrenaline was starting to wane. I could feel that familiar lightheadedness driving in.

  That’s when it hit me.

  Larry.

  Of all the stupid things I could’ve done.

  We found Mom at the door of the fort. She was sitting in the grass, her back to us.

  “Mrs. Allen?” Carlisle asked, panting.

  Mom’s head whipped around, and that’s when I saw him. He was limp in her arms, face pale and slack.

  I skidded to a stop with a thousand and one excuses coming to mind.

  “James, what—”

  “Mrs. Allen, is it okay if I take a look at him?” Carlisle asked, going down to one knee, still careful to leave some distance between them.

  Her eyes, rimmed with red and soaked with terrified tears, went from me to Carlisle.

  “Please help him,” she pleaded.

  Carlisle bent closer. I couldn’t see what he did, and it was only a few seconds before he said, “We should take him to the dispensary.”

  “In the prison?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Here, why don’t you give your son to me?”

  With only a bit of reluctance, Mom handed Larry over.

  He was dead. He had to be dead. At that moment, I prayed to God as I’d never prayed to him before.

  God, please help my brother. God, please help my brother.

  Carlisle didn’t waste any time. He was up and running, and it was all I could do to keep up. Mom fell behind and was out of sight by the time we got to the gate.

  “What the hell is this?” the guard asked, wiping sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.

  “It’s the Allen boy, Boss. We need to take him to the infirmary.”

  “Hold it, not on my—”

  “Look, Boss, you don’t want it on your head if something happens to the warden’s boy.” Then, in a calm voice that was heavy with authority, he said, “I’m taking this boy inside. Now you want to call someone to escort us, or should I do it myself?”

  I could see the wheels spinning in the guard’s head. That’s when my mother appeared.

  “Let us in,” she said, her voice wracked.

  That was all it took. The guard nodded, and Carlisle was off again.

  What came next is sort of a blur. I remember getting to the small clinic. The stares. The curiosity.

  Then the doctor showed up. He was young. Even I knew that at the time. But he had kind eyes, and he told Carlisle where to put Larry. Then the doctor noticed me.

  “I think you should take the boy out,” he said, not unkindly.

  I didn’t want to go, but Carlisle said I should.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll stay with your brother.”

  The full weight of what I’d done had finally sunk in. I had killed my own brother. Me and my two friends: Peace and Quiet. I felt like crap. Low down dirty devil cursed crap.

  I looked up at Carlisle, my eyes brimming with tears. “How do you know he’ll be okay?”

  “I know. Now you go. I’ll come and find you when it’s okay.”

  There wasn’t anything else to do. An orderly escorted me out of the examination area and scrounged up a chair for me to sit in. I think he asked me some questions. All I remember is shaking my head, over and over again. Anyhow, it wasn’t in response to the orderly. I was lashing myself every which way I could. And through it, one word clanged like an iron bell in my mind: murderer.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dad marched in at some point trailed by Denny Bell. Dad didn’t even glance at me. Denny threw me a look like what I imagined a condemned man might get from a sympathetic executioner.

  I went deep with my depression. I’d never experienced loss before, not a real loss. Unless you count the dog that we found when I was five, the one that got into a box of rat poison three weeks later.

  I found myself wishing for Larry’s little foibles. Like the way he always wanted to play with me; he’d find a pretty flower and bring it to me. The first few times, I pretended to be appreciative. After a while I began tossing them in the can, telling Larry you’re only supposed to bring flowers to girls.

  I wanted to take it all back. Every jab. Every taunt. Every mean word.

  It was Carlisle who came to fetch me. Not Mom. Not Dad. Carlisle.

  “They say you can come,” he said, looking down at me.

  “Carlisle, I thought . . . I didn’t . . .

  “Shhh. It’s okay.”

  How could it be okay? I’d killed my brother. How would that be okay?

  I got up from the plastic chair and skulked in behind Carlisle. My feet were as heavy as my heart. I’m sorry, Larry.

  “Jimmy,” I heard someone croak.

  I peeked around the curtain and saw him. Not slack with death. Pale, sure, but very much alive and looking for me.

  Pushing past the doctor, I ran to him.

  Tubes were running into his arm, and I avoided them to give him an awkward hug.

  “I’m sorry, Larry.” I held on to him so hard. So hard.

  “Ow,” he said. “Stop. You’re only supposed to hug girls!”

  I guess I taught him a little too well. I didn’t care, though I eased up.

  “I’m sorry,” I said again. Then the realization of the adults watching the “Jimmy Show” sunk in. I slunk back from the bed.

  “What happened?” L
arry asked me. Of course, he asked me. He always asked me his questions first.

  I fumbled for an answer.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” Dad said.

  Larry was alive. I was dead meat.

  Chapter Nineteen

  No one said a word to me when we walked home. No one told me to go to my room, but I went like a guilty man. No dinner was offered. No orders came to put on my pajamas. No goodnight kisses. Ten years old and put in solitary confinement.

  I heard them put Larry to bed and heard Mom tell Larry how much she loved him. I also heard Dad make a rare appearance telling Larry how brave he’d been.

  Then they both went to the kitchen. So, I slipped to the bathroom to my listening vent. If I was going to get a whooping, I wanted to know when it was coming.

  “How could this happen?” Dad said. “Weren’t you watching them?”

  If Dad thought Mom was going to lie down and take it, he was wrong.

  “I went to the store. I’ve gone to the store before. James was in charge. He made a mistake.”

  “A mistake?”

  “Yes, a mistake. Humans make them.”

  “And I assume you expect me to look the other way.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But it’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  “Dean, why don’t you take off your warden’s cap for a night. He is your son.”

  There was a pause. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” There was a scary softness in Dad’s anger now.

  “It means that you treat the boys, especially James, the way you treat the guards. I can’t remember the last time you hugged him. If I can’t remember it . . .”

  Dad’s voice was low now. I had to strain to hear it.

  “You think I should hug him? For what? Leaving his brother to die of a heat stroke?”

  “He didn’t die, Dean. Did you ever think about how James might be feeling? What—do you think he’s happy about this? You have two sons. It would be good if you remembered that.”

  “I didn’t get where I am by having my father coddle me.”

  “Oh,” Mom exclaimed in exaggeration. “God forbid a man should show some affection to a child!”