The Warden's Son

by C. G. Cooper

  “Wait, wait. Here’s the best part,” one of the assistant wardens said. He had the VCR remote in his hand. Then, “Ohhhhhh!” from the group.

  What were they watching?

  I snuck around to get a better view. The men were glued forward and didn’t notice me shifting behind them.

  There were beer bottles all over the coffee table plus a drink in each man’s hand. Some held clear glasses filled with an amber liquid like Dad.

  “Who wants to see it again?” the assistant warden asked. He did something with the remote, pressed play and then, “Ohhhhhhh!” erupted again.

  Now I was curious. What in the world would elicit this reaction from men who daily dealt with hardened criminals?

  I’d made it to a position where I could see now. It wasn’t easy because everyone in attendance crowded close for a view of the television, but I caught a lucky sliver of air.

  “Here we go again,” said the man holding the remote.

  I couldn’t at first make out what I was watching. I could see some industrial facility. There was a large metal container looking thing on the screen. Then the bin shifted left, and I saw what it contained. Trash. Just trash. Yet the room erupted again anyway. “Ohhhhh!”

  I was so confused that I took a couple of steps forward. What was I missing, and why were they so happy and laughing? The beer and the liquor had to mean something. Dad never drank more than a little brandy. I’d never seen him drunk. I was pretty sure he was now. Hell, they all were.

  The tape rewound, and I watched intently. The trash bin was in its original position, then it moved, like before. The first hint of the trash came into view.

  “Here he is. Good ‘ol Ivy Hodge.” The room erupted in fresh laughter.

  Who was Ivy Hodge?

  I took another step forward. I could touch the man in the back row if I’d wanted.

  The tape went back again. These guys were getting a kick out of this strange video. I thought that maybe it was an inside joke, something only adults understood. I’d been at the butt end of a raunchy joke before that I didn’t understand. I'd laugh and try to change the subject.

  “Okay, last time,” the man with the remote said.

  I strained to see. The bin. The moving. The trash.

  Then I saw it. No, not it. Them. I saw them interspersed with the debris inside the bin. There, serving as a hilarity for everyone in the room, was a collection of body parts, two arms, a leg, and a head that looked like an old squished pumpkin.

  I ran to my room, terrified of something I couldn’t name.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I had dreams that night. Dreams of drifting body parts floating through the ether. I didn’t know this Ivy Hodge, but I would forever remember him in the only way that I’d seen him: as scattered bits of trash left for someone else to clean up.

  Morning came along with the full story. I scooped my cereal carefully as Dad recounted Ivy Hodge’s tale.

  “Someone locked him into the trash bin. We’ll probably never find out who, but that doesn’t matter. I’ve never had an escape on my watch, and I still don’t.”

  “Honey, I don’t think you should be talking about this with the kids at breakfast.”

  “This is life, Esther,” he said dismissively, then turned to Larry. “Tell me, what happens when you do something bad?”

  Larry thought on that for a moment. “I get in trouble.”

  “Good. Now, what happens when you take a big chance and do something dangerous?”

  Larry thought again. “I could get hurt?”

  Dad beamed at Mom. “See? They understand.”

  Mom shook her head.

  “Why did he try to escape?” I asked.

  Dad shrugged and dug into his grapefruit. “We’ll probably never know. Some get bored. Others have something they want on the outside. Who’s to say?”

  “Are they unhappy in prison?”

  Dad looked at me in a way I’d never seen. He sucked his teeth for a moment. “When people do wrong, sometimes they don’t know how they can go about making that thing right again. That’s where we come in. We give them the chance to make things right by serving their time, doing their number. They don’t enjoy it, but they have to do it. Do you understand? We try to make it comfortable for them because they’re human beings, but human beings aren’t happy being cooped up all the time. And so, like birds . . .” He made a gesture with his hand of something taking off.

  I thought about this for a moment.

  “How did he die?”

  “Dean,” Mom said. The warning was clear.

  Again, Dad ignored her. “As far as we can tell, Mr. Hodge had an accomplice who helped him hide in that compactor. He didn’t get out of the bin in time because he didn’t factor on someone coming by and turning it on. That’s all. It was all part of a daily routine. So, the compactor got him. Just plain old bad luck.”

  I filed away dying in a trash bin as probably the worst way to die.

  Dad gulped down the last dregs of coffee and stood, a man reborn. “You all have a wonderful day.”

  He walked over and planted a wet kiss on Mom’s cheek and then actually took the time to tousle our hair, one head in each hand. Larry loved it. To me, it was a thousand spiders crawling on my head.

  When Dad was gone, my mother exhaled and attacked the dishes with less finesse than usual. I brought my bowl to the sink. “I can do the dishes, Mom.”

  Mom was muttering to herself.

  “Mom, are you okay?”

  She looked at me, fire in her eyes. I took a careful step back, a bowl still in hand. Then she said something I’ll never forget.

  “James, learn from your father. Don’t be like him. Learn from him. If you’re confused about that, ask me about it some other time.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  With Dad’s perfect record still intact, the Allen family settled into Virginia life. I’m not sure if Mom had anything to do with it, but every night Dad would come home and take me out to the shed where we’d tinker with the four-wheeler. The parts were there along with sketched instructions left by Carlisle.

  “Good man, that Carlisle,” Dad would say if we encountered a particularly difficult fix that he wouldn’t have been able to do without help.

  We got in a routine. Morning breakfast. Fighting the Revolution in the fields. Whistle, lunch. Nap for Larry and quiet time for yours truly. Then more playtime outside.

  To summarize, I was in heaven—pure, unadulterated bliss.

  I should’ve known it would all go to crap.

  Larry was once again playing the role of a spy. I had to admit he was getting good. I told him so. That for sure, got him going.

  We were snooping on the neighbors in a gray, warm drizzle when it really started pissing down on us.

  “We should probably go home,” I said, swiping a sheet of water from my face.

  “Nooooo,” Larry whined. “Please, Jimmy. Let’s play.”

  He danced around in the rain like Gene Kelly. I laughed at the face he was making, a cross between a clown and a kid with a severe spinal injury.

  “Okay.” I grabbed his hands, and we spun around and around. I tilted my face up to the sky. Big fat raindrops hit every inch.

  “Faster!” Larry screamed with a giggle on his lips.

  “Here we go.” I opened my eyes to make sure we weren’t about to go whirling into a tree. There he was. Standing in the rain. Just staring. Brady Bruce.

  The shock of it made me loosen the hold I had on Larry. He flew away laughing as he splashed into the mud. I went for my brother, concerned that I might’ve hurt him again.

  “Do it again!” he said.

  I looked up to see Brady Bruce. He was gone. Vanished.

  How had he disappeared so quickly? Maybe it was my imagination; I told you, I have an active one.

  “Come on, Larry. It’s time to go home.”

  Larry complained only a little. We walked home hand in hand. Thinking back, I wish I cou
ld have that moment again—two brothers at peace. Time would eventually stomp on that beautiful memory.

  A word to the wise from your humble servant Jimmy Allen: Gather ye rosebuds, folks, and remember what they smell like when you do. They tend to rot pretty fast.

  We were rounding the last turn to home when a voice cracked through the rain.

  “Looked like you boys were having fun.”

  I turned slowly. Brady Bruce was walking along in the rain, swinging his nightstick like it was the freest form of exercise he could get.

  “We’re going home,” I said quickly.

  After all, he was fast. Faster than I’d put on the big man. He cut in front of us. There was nothing to do but stop.

  “Which one of you is Larry?” he asked. I knew he knew. He asked the question in one of those voices meant for a kid six and under.

  “Me. I’m Larry,” my brother said, even raising his hand in the air.

  “Ah. That’s right. You’re the strong one.”

  Bruce looked at me, and I felt cold all over. My grip on Larry’s hand tightened.

  “Owwwww. That hurts!”

  I ignored his complaint. “Come on, Larry. Mom needs us at home.”

  I tried to get around the hulking guard, but he shifted to block us.

  “Your mom’s not home,” Bruce said. Something in his voice. “She said I should look out for you two lunkheads.”

  That’s when we met eyes. I mustered every ounce of Dad’s bravery, every drop of General Washington’s courage, but I still wanted to wither away.

  We stood there in a standoff.

  “Everything okay?” came a voice.

  It was from Carlisle. I could have kissed him.

  Brady Bruce turned around, swinging his club into his hand. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

  “Checking for rain spout leaks, Boss,” Carlisle said, pointed to the closest house. “Jimmy. Larry. How you boys doin’?”

  My God, my body flooded with relief. It was short-lived, though.

  “Get back to the prison,” Bruce ordered.

  Carlisle mulled that over for a moment. He was wearing a homemade poncho that looked like it’d seen service in the Civil War.

  “I sure need to get this work done, Boss. Last year one of the gutters got knocked off in heavy rain and almost fell on someone.”

  “Well, we wouldn’t want that now, would we?” Bruce said with a sneer.

  “No, Boss.”

  Bruce’s eyes came back to me.

  “Come on, kids. I’ll take you home.”

  “Why don’t you let me take them, Boss? I’m sure you’ve got more important things to do.”

  Holy Carlisle, blessed Carlisle.

  Bruce’s body flexed, and he stepped over to the older man. The club came up and tapped him in the middle of the chest. “Why don’t you mind your own fucking business, inmate?”

  “Yes, Boss. Just minding my own business. Warden and Mrs. Allen told me to keep my eyes out for the boys. Isn’t that right, Jimmy?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” I said, too quickly.

  Bruce’s eyes flicked between Carlisle and the Allen boys. Then the club tipped up forty-five degrees and nudged Carlisle’s chin up.

  “I’ve got my eye on you, boy.”

  Carlisle didn’t move a muscle. I wished he’d snatch the weapon from Bruce’s hand and serve it to him for lunch.

  The walkie talkie on Bruce’s hip squawked. “Bruce, need you at the front gate. New prisoners to process.”

  The stick came down, and he answered the call.

  “I’ll be right there.” He straightened his rain-soaked uniform and stared down Carlisle one last time. “Fresh meat, my favorite.” He tapped Carlisle on each shoulder with his club, like a king knighting a lord. Then, he walked away.

  When he was out of sight, Carlisle ushered us to the greenhouse. I was shivering uncontrollably by then. Even Larry noticed, and he wrapped his little arm around me.

  “Larry, there’s a stack of clean towels in my office. Do you mind grabbing them and bringing them out?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Larry marched off, and I sat on the edge of one of the many raised beds. When my brother was out of earshot, Carlisle asked, “Are you okay, Jimmy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Cuz that there’s an evil man.”

  I looked up at him, not the least bit embarrassed when tears came to my eyes. “He scares me.”

  Carlisle nodded. “That means you’re a good soul. And you know what? He scares me too, Jimmy.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Why does he scare you? You’re as big as him.”

  He reached over and fiddled with one of the leaves on a tomato plant.

  “You spend enough time behind bars, and you get to know the look of a man. You ever heard of a snap judgment?”

  “I think so.” I didn’t want to admit that I didn’t know.

  “Well, it means that you pretty much know what a man’s like seconds after you meet him. Has that ever happened to you?”

  “Yes! With Brady Bruce.”

  Carlisle nodded appreciatively. “I thought so. You got the gift, Jimmy.”

  My tears were gone now.

  “What gift?”

  Carlisle sat down beside me.

  “There’s a lot of good in this world. A lot of bad too. The trick is to go towards one while running like a banshee away from the other. At least that’s what my grandma used to say to me.”

  “But you’re in jail.”

  The words came out of my mouth before I could catch them and slam them back down my gullet. I remembered what Dad had told me about talking to inmates about what they’d done on the outside and about how they were doing their time like honorable men.

  “Yup. Cuz I did some bad things before I came here. Hell, I did bad things since I’ve been in here.” He looked down the length of the greenhouse for Larry. Satisfied, he shifted back to me. “But deep down, I am a good man. Always have been. You understand that?”

  “Sure.” There were plenty of superheroes with tainted pasts. “Why are you in jail, Carlisle?” Again, with the runaway words. Good move, Jimmy. “Never mind, you don’t have to tell me.”

  He looked again for Larry. No Larry. He probably became distracted by Carlisle’s knick-knacks.

  “It’s okay. You don’t need to know. I’m not proud of what I’ve done. All the same, I can’t change it. I did some things on the outside that I still need to atone for. Do you understand what ‘atone’ means?”

  “No.”

  “I guess the easiest way to say it is that it means to put things right. You understand? That’s why I’m doing my number and not complaining about it. Don’t get me wrong; I was angry for a long time. But you see, I was angry at me. I hurt a lot of people. Hurt my family.” He stared down at his hands. “Can you believe that I learned how to be a good man on the inside?”

  Dad would’ve liked to hear that.

  Larry showed up with the towels. “Here, Jimmy.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  We dried off a bit and waited for the rain to slacken. We talked with Carlisle about plants and flowers. The soil has to be good, he said, over and over again. Gotta have good soil. It wasn’t until I started writing this that I finally figured out what he meant.

  However, when I got home, all I could think about was what Carlisle had said about the world being full up with good and bad.

  I wondered which side I might end upon.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Sometimes I’d see Brady Bruce at the front gate or driving past in the prison pickup. He’d always stare at me. Always. I didn’t like it. I thought about telling Dad, but I didn’t. I can’t explain why. Maybe I didn’t want to admit to the warden that there were things in life that were starting to get the better of me.

  Summer went on. Dad and I got the four-wheeler working with Carlisle’s help. It got to the point where
even Carlisle’s detailed notes couldn’t help, so Dad asked him to do the work. Thank goodness. With Carlisle at the helm, Marauder was up and running in two days.

  “She could use a polish here and there, but as far as I can see, she’s ready for combat,” Carlisle announced.

  It was done and I had free reign with the growling beast.

  “Make sure you bring it back to Carlisle when you’re finished riding,” said Dad. “Help him get it cleaned up. Whatever he says.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, ready to give away a kidney for the chance at roving freedom. I’d never met a kid my age who had a four-wheeler. And here I was, Jimmy Allen, about to ravage the countryside with my very own.

  “Make sure Larry stays off. You got that?”

  No problem with that. “Yes, sir,” I said.

  Dad gave me a pat on the back and told me I could start it up. “She’s all yours, son.”

  I had never heard my father speak such sweet-sounding words.

  I rotated the key, and the engine came to life with a sputter and stayed alive with a healthy growl.

  “That noise should run itself out in a day,” Carlisle said. “Made some adjustments this morning.”

  To me, it was music. I revved the engine, feet and hands ready to go to work.

  I spent the day roaming the fields, helmetless and free, splashing through the lowest points of the creek and relishing the power beneath my butt. I wondered if this was what Washington felt while riding his faithful horse, Blueskin. Power isn’t showing force. Power is having the choice to do so if one wishes.

  I waved to the patrol and felt the thrill as I rumbled past them. Some of the guards egged me on, whooping as I shot forward. But even helming this mighty machine, I was careful not to approach any vehicles driven or occupied by Brady Bruce.

  In the days to come, everyone knew I had a four-wheeler. When asked, I would brag about building it from scratch. It wasn’t really a lie. More than once, I’d scratched myself while helping Carlisle.

  My ego inflated to canyon size and lifted me to the heavens on my four-wheeled harbinger of terror.