The Warden's Son

by C. G. Cooper

  “Don’t start with me, Esther.”

  Another pause. The sound of dishes clinking in the sink.

  “A child, Dean—a boy—needs love from his father.”

  “He knows that I love him.”

  I figured Mom had magic powers to make Dad say that.

  The sound of a lighter flicking and the ensuing pause, then the exhale.

  “What do you want from me, Esther?”

  “I want you to be a father.”

  Dad’s voice slipped into the barest modicum of resignation. “Esther.”

  “Dean, you discipline James the way you think is best. I won’t get in your way.” My throat constricted. “But for heaven’s sake, be fair. Be a father.”

  “When am I ever mean, even with the inmates?”

  Mom sighed. “Your son is not an inmate.”

  There was a pause, and Dad said, “No, and he won’t be.”

  And then a long pause. The conversation was over. I slipped from the bathroom, into my room, and under the covers. It didn’t take long, though it felt like a millennium. My door creaked open, and Dad stepped inside. The light in the hallway silhouetted his form.

  “Get up, son.”

  I did as I was told, quick to get on my feet. I’d been through this before. Dad would order me to bend over the bed or reach down and grab my ankles. No wooden spoon in his hand, so it was going to be old school: his calloused mitt.

  “I’m sorry, Dad.”

  He didn’t say a thing for a long time. I couldn’t see his face in the dark.

  “Come on,” he said, then turned and headed the opposite way.

  I followed him, past the kitchen where Mom was still washing the dishes from a dinner I hadn’t eaten. Out the front door. Past the now-infamous fort and around the back of the house.

  Dad opened the greenhouse door and flicked on a light. Why were we going to the greenhouse? Maybe it was only going to be a talk. Hope fluttered somewhere between my belly button and my heart.

  I stepped in as he moved deeper inside, towards Carlisle’s little office.

  “Close the door, James.”

  I closed the door. I took a breath. I kept walking.

  I felt the dirt under my bare feet, wishing I could sink down into it.

  Yes. A talk. That had to be it. A whooping happened at home. Courage bubbled up inside of me, and my steps became more confident.

  Yes. Like a truce in the middle of a battlefield with two generals meeting to discuss a mutually beneficial way forward.

  “Hurry up, James.”

  Dad’s voice had that mellow tone I'd heard before. The one reserved for awkward conversations. Like the time he’d invited me out to throw the football, only to use it as a segue to tell me about sex. How he’d made the topic leap from forward passes to intercourse was positively artistic.

  He usually lit up a cigarette during these manly heart-to-hearts. Why wasn't he pulling out his Lucky Strikes?

  We were in Carlisle’s office now. Nowhere to go. Something came out of Dad’s pocket. I recognized it as one of the hundred white handkerchiefs he had in his collection. He carried one or two every day, especially in the summer.

  He did something with it I’d never seen him do. He stretched it out lengthwise, corner to corner, then he spun it around itself in a twisted spool, like you do when you’re about to smack someone with a towel. Then he folded it over on itself.

  “Open your mouth,” he said, turning to me, the handkerchief held out.

  “Sir?”

  I reserved my most respectful retorts for when I was in really deep doo. This felt like one of those times. I felt like I was going to throw up.

  “Open your mouth and bite down on this, James.”

  The handkerchief came closer. I could smell Mom’s laundry detergent.

  “But, Dad . . .”

  His eyes went hard. I knew that look. No words needed.

  I opened my mouth, and he stuck in the handkerchief like a horse’s bit.

  “Bite down.”

  I bit down, still not understanding.

  Dad unbuckled his belt.

  My knees rattled. Bile crept up my throat; I was going to choke. I let a small whine escape from my throat.

  The belt came off, and Dad pointed to the cinder block desk.

  “Grab hold.” And then, as if he was somehow helping me, he said, “It’s okay if you scream. The handkerchief will muffle the sound.”

  I threw Dad one last pleading look. I was too shocked to cry even though I desperately wanted to. Maybe tears would veer him from this path.

  “Put your hands on the edge of the desk.”

  I complied. No complaining now. No sense running either. Both would only make things worse. I’m not sure how they could’ve gotten worse, but Dad would figure it out if it were possible.

  I was bent at the waist.

  No warning.

  The first belt whip shocked me to silence. The pain wasn’t immediate, and I thought that maybe I was too tough to feel it.

  Negative. The pain came. Burning. Stinging. Toe-tingling pain.

  The second slap brought the tears. I watched as they dropped down onto the desk, soaking a corner of one of Carlisle’s note sheets.

  The third whip made me scream. I don’t know where it came from, my inner being probably. Dad was right; the handkerchief muffled the sound. I felt my spit soaking it.

  The hits to my rear came harder now, faster.

  And through it all, I screamed.

  I screamed, and I cried, and I lost myself to the pain.

  Chapter Twenty

  I didn’t get out of bed the next morning. Mom had seen me drag myself in behind Dad the night before. It was long after Dad left for work that Mom came in with a tray of breakfast, the one reserved for sick days.

  “I made chocolate chip pancakes,” she said. “And bacon. I can make more if you want it.”

  Chocolate chip pancakes were my favorite, and she knew it.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  I kept staring at the ceiling, just like I had been for the entire night. I’d contemplated every conceivable option available to a ten-year-old. From sneaking into Dad’s room and whooping him with my own belt to running away. In the end, I opted to stay in bed, staring at blotches on the ceiling, twisting them into Rorschach shapes. I was humbled, a bold lion showed that there was something much stronger than itself.

  “I’ll leave it here,” Mom said, placing the tray on my nightstand.

  I ignored her, and I kept ignoring her the entire day. She’d left her cub to a rabid wolf. I knew she saw that. On the other hand, what could she do?

  Nothing.

  And I did nothing. Nothing except stare up at the ceiling and wait for the pain in my backside to subside.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I don’t remember how many days it took me to crawl from my cave. It was inevitable that I’d get hungry at some point. Mom wouldn’t let me lie in my body stink for too long. To me, it seemed like a month. It was probably a day and a half, maybe two.

  When I emerged from my self-imposed cell, I felt like a changed man. Yes, a man. I know it sounds ridiculous. Maybe it was. But that’s what happens when you catch a glimpse of the shadow side of people you trust.

  I’d never been on the butt-end of that level of execution-style punishment, and something in me had broken. The warden was my father, the man who’d given me part of my life, who provided a roof over my head. Now he was little more than some sadistic landlord.

  The second was Mom. What happens to a boy when his life-giver gives the okay to have his flesh flayed off?

  Last, there was me. The pain and the ensuing self-analysis skinned the childhood from my being.

  The only positive thing I had was aimed toward Larry. Never would I hurt him again.

  The less visible part of me took a more twisted turn. I’d had my nerve endings burned with hellfire, and now they were numb. They’d callous over soon. The near-death of Larry
, the argument between my parents, and the subsequent thrashing in the greenhouse had worked in awful confluence to reform me.

  Of course, time would heal a portion of those thoughts and ease them into some long-forgotten memory. Although not all of it.

  It was on the day of my willing release that I left the house with Larry. He would be my constant companion going forward. We spent time splashing around the creek, climbing the lowest tree limbs that could hold our combined weight. I boosted him up, and he grunted like he was climbing Mount Kilimanjaro.

  I have to give Larry credit here. Whether he didn’t remember or was too young to be bitter, he never once mentioned the fort incident. He seemed to latch onto my changed attitude. It was like we’d grown up together. He listened to my directions and rarely ever acted like an annoying five-year-old in my presence again. The perfect little gentlemen companion. The Billy Lee to my General Washington.

  The whistle for midday headcount blew, and we watched as the trustees left what I called “the free zone.”

  Harley chatted along with Cotton while Carlisle brought up the rear. He was reading a book as he walked.

  “Carlisle’s nice,” Larry said, flicking an ant off his leg.

  “Mmm,” I said.

  These were the long days of summer in my childhood when small philosophies stretched like our shadows.

  That night, Dad wasn’t home for dinner. Mom looked anxious. She even spilled Larry’s milk when she reached across the table to put another roll on his plate.

  “I’m sorry, Larry,” she murmured.

  Larry didn’t care that she’d spilled the glass right onto his lap. He laughed like he’d been down a water ride at Kings Dominion.

  I helped Mom clean up the mess and then took the soaking napkins to the laundry room. When I passed the window, I stopped and stared out.

  Strange.

  It looked like every prison light was on: one big beacon of dazzling brightness. That was new. So much brilliance at once.

  That’s when it hit me. We hadn’t heard the second whistle for evening headcount. Carlisle and the others hadn’t come back to work. Larry and I had gone on playing without noticing a thing.

  I chucked the soiled napkins in the washing machine and marched back into the kitchen.

  “Something’s happening at the prison,” I said.

  Larry perked up. “What is it? A riot?” He’d learned the word. He had no idea what it meant.

  Mom threw me a look. “It’s fine. Just emergency drills.” She picked up her still-full plate and scraped its contents into the trash with a knife. “James, would you please help me with the dishes?”

  “But, Mom . . .”

  “James?” She held out the plate.

  When I was standing next to her, she whispered so only I could hear. “Your father said we should stay in the house.”

  “Why?”

  She looked over at Larry, who was busy making a rocket ship out of his fork and whispered,

  “A prisoner is missing.”

  “Really?” I wasn’t scared in the least. Dad had always told us that when a prisoner disappears, he usually wants to get as far away from the prison as quickly as he can. This was more like an adventure than something to worry over.

  She put a finger to her lips.

  A knock at the front door made us both jump up.

  “Mrs. Allen?” came a voice.

  “Denny!” Larry said and hopped up from the table. I wasn’t the only fan of the assistant warden with the movie star looks.

  Mom opened the door, and Denny Bell stood there with a walkie talkie in one hand, a black vest strapped to his chest, and pistol hanging off his hip.

  “Mrs. Allen. Boys.”

  “Did they find him?” Mom asked.

  “Find who?” Larry asked, latching onto Mom’s leg.

  “Hush now, Larry.”

  “He’s still missing, Ma’am. The warden wanted me to stop by and tell you that all homes are on lockdown for the night. We’ve got guards posted throughout the housing, so there’s no reason to worry. We’re pretty sure he left the reservation.”

  I remembered hearing the story of an inmate who’d gone missing in Massachusetts. That was before I was born. Dad said the guy had hidden in the coat closet of the warden’s house before they brought in the dogs and found him days later. No harm to anyone except his dehydrated self. I made a mental note to check the closet before bed that night.

  “You’ll be fine, Mrs. Allen.” He must’ve seen the concern on her face as I did. “But I could have someone posted in the house if you’d like.”

  Mom composed herself at that. “Nonsense. We’ll be fine. Right, kids?”

  “Yeah, we’ll be fine, Denny,” I said.

  Denny shook my hand and then Larry’s.

  “I knew you men would be up to the challenge. Now,” he reached his hands into a side pocket and produced two Snickers bars, “your Dad said I should give these to your Mom, in case you men ended up being a big help tonight.”

  “Oooo me, me! I’m a big help,” Larry said.

  “I’m sure you are, Larry.” He looked to Mom, and she nodded.

  I was not above bribery. If Dad thought giving us candy bars would help us stay calm, I wasn’t about to protest the ethical structure of the deal. Full candy bars were as rare as Christmas Day in the Allen household.

  After further assurance that all would be well, Denny hoisted Larry up over his head, flying him like a plane. Then he left with a smiling farewell.

  “I like Denny,” Larry said, his mouth gummed with nougat.

  I watched the kid dance away in joyful ignorance. Until bedtime, Mom and I tried to ignore the rumble of guard trucks and the odd sounds coming from the prison. We were allowed to turn the television volume up high that night. She sat up with us, knitting a blanket for a friend, always with one eye on the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Morning came, and we were still on lockdown. Not such a bad thing. Mom let us eat as much cereal as we wanted, and then the morning was all television.

  But remember, something had happened to my brain. Up until the day of my whooping in the greenhouse, I’d been oblivious to the evils of the world. Oh, I knew there was bad stuff out there. However, there was always a part of me that knew I was safe. Evil had not found its way into the things I loved. So, I could eat my cereal and watch my cartoons. Deep inside, I knew that if there was any real threat, I wouldn’t be doing any of those things.

  But then came the betrayal. Suddenly, evil was not only out there, but capable of seeping in through the vents in whatever cozy little place we’d ever call home.

  Although I enjoyed my morning, I needed an answer just as much as I knew Mom did.

  It finally came.

  Dad came home, and I heard whispered words coming from the kitchen. Then he left with a mug of coffee in his hand, a nod of his head, and a curt, “Boys.” I instantly started to feel better because if there was something really wrong, Dad would tell us. It was as simple as that. Warden Allen protected his sons, though not at the expense of the truth.

  The official call came before lunch—All Clear. By then, Mom had gotten used to the situation. The noon whistle blew, and Larry and I ran outside to play, lunchboxes in hand.

  We devoured sandwiches while dangling our feet in the creek. We sat there digesting and trying to skip stones across the lazy water. When we grew bored of that, we declared total war on the British.

  Larry and I came home sweaty and smiling at the second whistle. When we arrived, there were three prison trucks and a couple of sedans parked in the front of the house. Mom was sitting on the front porch knitting. She looked up when we appeared.

  “Who’s here?” I asked.

  She stood from the rocking chair.

  “Your father and some of the others.” She set the knitting down on the chair and stretched. “I need to pick some things up at the store. Why don’t you quietly use the bathroom and then we’ll go?”


  “Argh, Mom, can we stay?”

  “Yeah, stay!” Larry repeated.

  “I’ll let you pick out snacks,” Mom said.

  “Snacks!” Larry said. “I want some snacks!”

  My sidekick was easily susceptible to outside enticements. I, on the other hand, had no such vice. Still, it didn’t matter. We were up against a formidable foe.

  “Then it’s settled,” said Mom, firing the salvo that ended the battle. “Get cleaned up and we’ll go.”

  The mind that had unearthed every redcoat hiding in a one-mile radius now hatched a plan for the ages.

  “Hey, Mom?”

  She looked up from brushing the dust from Larry’s backside.

  “I’m pretty tired. I didn’t sleep well last night. You know, because of the—" I threw a glance at the prison.

  Total lie. I’d slept like the dead. In fact, my slumber had been better than good. I’d caught the lost prisoner in my dreams.

  Mom’s eyes narrowed and I tried to make my face look as tired as I could.

  “Fine,” she said.

  Victory, thy name is James Allen.

  “But you stay in your room and leave your father and the others alone.”

  “I promise.” I was sincere. All I really wanted to do was kick back and enjoy some blessed air conditioning, maybe map out my next attack against the British.

  Mom and Larry left, and I cleaned up in the bathroom.

  When I emerged, I heard Dad’s laugh. It wasn’t something we heard often. Hell, we rarely heard him laugh. That got me curious: spy time. Every good general knows he has to play that role when needed.

  A loud, “Ohhhhhhh!” erupted from the living room as I approached. I froze.

  “Now watch this!” someone said. Then another, “Ohhhhhh!”

  I moved closer. When I got to the living room and peeked in, the first thing I noted was Dad standing with a huge grin, a clear glass in his hand with some dark liquid in it.

  “Ohhhhhhh!” went the group again. Dad chuckled.

  That’s when I realized they were all staring at the television.