by C. G. Cooper
“I understand.”
I wanted to tell him about seeing Dad’s gun in the nightstand, and how there were days I felt like I wanted to grab it and take on the whole world—the Yancys, the Brady Bruces, the redcoats, all of them. I wanted to say that I wouldn’t care what happened to me if I did. I didn’t tell him that. But I had to let him know that I did understand.
“I put Larry in the fort on purpose,” I said.
The regret of that damnable action still haunted me. I hadn’t said a cross word to my little brother since.
“I know,” Carlisle answered.
“How?”
“I just did.”
“And you don’t hate me?”
That stare again, like he could look into the very center of my swirling soul. “Now why the hell would you say that, Jimmy?”
“Because I could’ve gotten Larry killed.”
“Yeah. You could have.”
“Still, you don’t hate me.”
“It was a mistake. That’s all I can see. It’s not my place to judge. That’s the work of the man upstairs.”
“God?”
“Who’d you think I was talking about? Johnny Carson? Anyway, I know you didn’t mean for your brother to get hurt.”
“I didn’t. I really didn’t.”
The tears came. Every ounce of remorse bubbled up and my sniffs turned to muffled sobs. I pulled up my shirt to wipe them.
Carlisle leaned in. “Jimmy, a man makes mistakes. It’s what we do to atone for those mistakes that tells the world who we are. I see how you take care of Larry now. That boy loves you. You love him. Nothing better than that. You hold onto that. You know, I wish I’d loved my brother more.”
It was the first I’d heard mention of any of Carlisle’s family.
“What’s his name?” I said, sob-sucking the words.
“My brother? His name was Cameron. We called him Cam.”
“Carlisle and Cam,” I mused aloud.
Carlisle chuckled. “You make us sound like a vaudeville act. Our mama thought it was cute.”
The tape rewound in my head. Was.
“Is he still alive?”
Carlisle shook his head. “He died a year after I got in here.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too. Cam was a good kid. Always trying to be like me. That’s what got him killed.” That sentence hung in the air for some time before he spoke again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you that.”
“You’re goddamn right you shouldn’t have told him anything, inmate.”
Carlisle popped to his feet at the sound of Bruce’s voice. Everything in me told me to run someplace far away.
Almost everything. I wasn’t going to let my friend stay alone.
“Go home, kid,” said Bruce. “This inmate and I have some business to discuss.” He stepped forward and poked Carlisle in the chest with his stick. “Don’t we, inmate?”
I wanted Carlisle to take the stick out of Bruce’s hand and beat him with it. What he did instead, was say, “Run on home, Jimmy.”
“But—“
Carlisle looked down at me, his eyes somehow bright and without a lick of concern. “Go. I’ll be okay.”
So, I ran. I ran so fast that if someone had stepped out in front of me, I’m pretty sure I’d have run through him.
All I remember hearing as I rounded the corner for our front door was a sound like a slap, and Bruce’s voice saying, “If I catch you talking to that boy again, I’m going to kill you.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Carlisle wasn’t in the greenhouse the next day. He wasn’t there on Monday morning before I went to school. I waited until the last possible second. He still didn’t come.
Mom walked me to the bus that morning. She was jabbering on about something, I’m not sure what, and I didn’t care. I was on the lookout for my friend. There were the roving patrols, the neighbors, the guards leaving the night shift. But no Carlisle.
Someone had to know. Perhaps Mom could wheedle her way in with Dad to find out. I stepped up onto the bus and turned to ask her if she could.
When I turned to ask the question, my eyes flicked to the house. Wouldn’t you know it? Brady Bruce was holding Larry on his shoulders as Larry excitedly waved to me.
I froze, mouth hanging open.
“James. Honey, what is it?”
I should’ve pointed. I should’ve shouted. But I was a coward.
“All aboard, young man,” said the bus driver.
I took one last look at Bruce. He winked comically at me, an exaggerated gesture with a turned head and crooked mouth.
The bus doors closed, and I made my way to my assigned seat. Then I watched through the window as Larry giggled, riding on the monster’s shoulders.
Chapter Thirty-Five
That morning, the teacher called on me twice, and twice I begged off saying I didn’t feel well.
“Do you need to go to the nurse?” she said.
“I think so,” I said.
“Kenji, you go with him.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Kenji said, quick on his feet.
The march to the nurse’s office was slow and painful. The ache from my stomach had spread to my arms and legs. I wanted to fall to the ground and cry.
“Are you okay?” Kenji asked at some point along the way.
I wanted to tell him everything. He’d been my friend. My good friend. But what could he do? He hadn’t even stood up to Yancy and his perverted pantsers.
“I’ll be okay,” I lied.
Kenji grabbed my arm and stopped us in the middle of the hall. “You’re not sick. I know sick.”
“What are you talking about? I am sick.”
I met his eyes, and that’s when he got me. There was a ferocity there. Not like he was mad at me for lying. More like he was going to get the truth no matter what I said. Something in me caved. I told him everything.
We made it to the nurse. She checked me up and down as thoroughly as a school nurse was allowed. When the nurse finished her examination, she said, “No fever. No symptoms. Why don’t you lie down for a few minutes? Mr. Lawrence, why don’t you head back to class.”
“I’m supposed to stay with Jimmy.”
She looked at us dubiously. “Keep quiet.”
“We will,” Kenji said.
The nurse left, and I lay back on the cot and closed my eyes. I wanted the world to disappear.
“Jimmy?” I heard.
“Yeah?” I said weakly.
“I have a plan.”
I opened my eyes. “For what?”
“For Brady Bruce.”
I propped myself up on my elbows. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I think we can get him in trouble with your dad.”
He had my attention. “How?”
He told me. I listened. When he was done, he stuck out his hand.
“Friends?”
I took his hand. It was firmer than I remembered. “Friends.”
And then we settled in to plot the demise of Brady Bruce.
Chapter Thirty-Six
It was a whole four days before we could arrange Kenji’s visit. That gave us time to figure out some particulars. I did my part. I put on my old spy hat and took surreptitious notes as guards changed posts and patrols went by. I logged every sighting of Bruce.
Each morning I’d report in with Kenji, who’d go over my notes like a line editor combing a manuscript. He held a ballpoint pen and clicked it every time he made a checkmark or underline, saying, “I think we can use this,” or, “Yes. Just as I thought.”
He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask. I’d relegated myself to second in command. Kenji’s mind was better suited for strategy. I was best suited for doing the dirty work. The man on the ground, slinking through the mud towards the target.
Friday.
It took some heavy convincing on Kenji’s part for his parents to agree to let us have a sleepover at my place. Kenji boarded the bus with m
e after school so off we went—going over our battle plans one last time.
I was giddy with nervous energy as we stepped off the bus. Kenji took it all in. The tree-lined drive. The log home at the end. The prison that was impossible to miss.
“Cool,” he said as the bus pulled away. He paused for a moment, then looked at me and said, “Come on. We’ve got work to do.”
We checked in with Mom first. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Kenji.”
Kenji reached out his hand like a visiting dignitary. “Thank you for having me, Mrs. Allen.”
That elicited a grin from Mom. “And so polite. Please make yourself at home.”
To my surprise, she’d loaded the pantry with goodies we never had except during moves: my favorite cereals, snacks and desserts.
“I’m keeping strict inventory,” she said, a playful wink in her voice.
We dropped our bags in my room and said a quick hello to Larry, who was in his own little world with robots and aliens. Afterward, we headed out the door. I gave Kenji the grand tour and showed him my four-wheeler that still had two flat tires. Soon after, I took him to the creek.
As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t completely forget about Brady Bruce. He was always in the back of my mind, lingering there like a phantom. But our time in the water cleansed me of some of the bitterness. I wasn’t alone. Kenji was back.
I showed him where the best spots were for catching crawdads. He wasn’t afraid of picking them up, even after he got pinched.
“In Japan, my grandfather would take me to the fish market. You should see how much fish they bring in every day.”
“I’ll bet it stinks.”
“Not like you think. The fish is fresh like this little guy.” He held the crawdad up by the torso, and it squirmed to bare its pincers. Kenji set it down in the water, and it swam away.
“You know you can hypnotize crabs by moving two fingers in front of them like this?” He demonstrated, pointing two fingers straight out and moving them in a slow, walking motion. “They go into a sort of trance and then you can wrap their claws in tape.”
I thought “crab hypnotist” would one day make for an excellent occupation. I filed it away in the back of my mind for when I had to write my career day report.
“What’s Japan like?” I asked, taking a seat on the edge of the creek bank, my feet kneading into the sandy bottom.
“My family lived outside Yokosuka. That’s where the big American naval base is. There’s a lot of people. Not like Tokyo, but still a lot. There’s cool stuff there.”
“When’s the next time you’re going back?”
His face made a strange, twisted expression. “We can’t go to Japan again.”
“Why not?”
He looked like he was going to answer the question. Instead, he said, “I’ll bet I can catch more minnows than you.”
And like that, the question was forgotten, and the race was on.
I ended up winning. Five minnows to Kenji’s three. To be fair, I knew where to find them. He was a good sport, and I only did a little bragging. Ten is the bragging age. At ten, you come into your own. It’s as if you have one chance and one chance only to prove you’re a man.
We had our socks and shoes in our hands as we made our way home, our stomachs growling and our spirits high. The sun was coming down by then.
“Why do you think Bruce doesn’t like you?” Kenji said.
“I don’t know,” I said, my soaring spirit losing several thousand feet in altitude. This comment had been the first mention of my nemesis in hours.
“What about the other guards? Is he friends with them?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I mean, I’ve seen Bruce talking to the others, telling them stories. They seem like they like him, but I think they’re . . . what’s the word when you pretend you like someone?”
“Humoring them?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
Kenji nodded thoughtfully. He may have been harboring the exact same wish for Bruce as I was—that the monster was a loner in life. It didn’t seem fitting in the grand scheme of nature, that is, to have a guy like Bruce be well-liked in the least.
“It’s not too late to back out, Jimmy,” Kenji said suddenly.
“I know,” I said, uneasy about the lack of confidence in his voice. This wasn’t the Dungeon Master talking. This was the kid hanging from the bars with his pants around his ankles, his face redder than a British uniform.
The truth was, from the moment Kenji had proposed his Get Back At Bruce Plan, I was all in. More than all in. I had a vision of our coming victory.
Isn’t there a saying about small men with big plans? Something about crashing to the ground with the pieces scattered around you? No?
There should be.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
We had a rare family breakfast the next morning. Even Dad was there. Usually, he was gone by sun-up, and I’d sit with a bowl of cereal in front of the television. This Saturday morning, Mom was up and ready with pancakes, eggs, bacon, and a pitcher of fresh orange juice.
What was this sunrise elixir of life? She never bought orange juice that wasn’t tipped out of a can with the sound of a cow pie hitting the pavement.
Dad had his arm around Mom’s waist. He let go and turned to us when we came into the room.
“Ah. This must be Mr. Lawrence.”
Kenji marched right over and stuck out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Allen.”
I saw Dad’s eyebrows go up. He took Kenji’s proffered hand. “Pleasure to meet you too, Mr. Lawrence.”
“You can call me Kenji, sir.”
Now, Dad looked at me. “See that, James? Why can’t you have manners like Kenji here?”
I let the comment go.
“Why don’t you boys have a seat,” said Mom, smoothing the situation with maple syrup. “Kenji, would you like chocolate chips in your pancakes?”
“Yes, please, ma’am!”
“Jimmy?”
“Do we have any strawberries?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Now isn’t that funny? I just happened to pick some up.”
“I’ll have strawberries, please.”
Kenji leaned over to me and whispered, “Is this how it is every Saturday?”
“Not unless someone died.”
Dad reached for the pack of cigarettes on the counter and shook out a single stick.
“Oh, please don’t light up now, Dean,” Mom said. “We have company.”
“It’s okay, Mrs. Allen. Lots of people smoke in Japan.”
“Hear that, Esther? The Japanese are civilized people.” He grabbed the cig with his teeth and lit it with a flick of his ever-present lighter. “Unlike the coddled idiots in this country, a bunch of pansies afraid of their own shadows.” He took a long drag. “My grandfather would be rolling over in his grave if he knew what was happening.”
“Let it go, Dean. Who wants orange juice?”
“We’re just having a conversation,” he said through an exhaled cloud.
“No, you’re just having a conversation.”
I leaned in to Kenji. “This is more like a typical Saturday.”
We left the house immediately after breakfast, our backpacks stuffed with supplies.
I led the way. Past the greenhouse. Past the sad four-wheeler. Past the other homes and our creek from the day before. We’d almost made it to our designated spot when I heard a call from behind.
“James!”
Dad came into view, Larry in tow. “You forgot your brother,” he said when he’d reached us. Larry was wearing a small rucksack. He’d probably seen us and made a stink to tag along with a backpack, too. Only God knows what he had in it. Whatever it was, it, like the kid wearing it, wasn’t part of the plan.
“Dad, Kenji and I . . .” I froze. Facing the warden wasn’t easy.
“You and Kenji what?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Now you know I don’t ask you this of
ten, but I’d like for you to take your brother with you. Your mother and I have some things to discuss.”
“We’ll take good care of him, Mr. Allen,” Kenji said.
“Good man, Kenji,” said Dad.
Yeah, good man, Kenji.
Dad let go of my brother’s hand. “Off you go then, Larry.”
Larry immediately went for Kenji. “What are we playing?”
Like it was all in the script, Kenji said, “We’re playing a game called ambush.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
D-Day.
I knew from my reconnaissance that there was one of only a few places we could hope to get Brady Bruce alone, a spot on a small rise near the farthest edge of the reservation boundary where patrol guards liked to park for a quick smoke. It had a terrific view of the countryside beyond the prison property. I’d been there myself a couple of times to watch the sunrise.
Kenji kept Larry busy finishing the hideout we’d started the day before. We had time. Not a lot. Breakfast had been a drawn-out event, but Kenji had added plenty of time for our prep in the initial planning stages. I was rehearsing my part in the drama. Timing and proper location were everything. We’d get one shot. Just one. I did not want to mess this one up. It was my one chance to get rid of my arch-nemesis and get Carlisle back to his rightful place on our staff.
The truck came rumbling up the two-run path as the lunch whistle faded into the distance. I held my breath as it came closer. I’d been calm up to that point, but now my legs felt like Jell-O, and my insides squirmed like a thousand centipedes.
“Ready?” Kenji asked. He had the video camera on his shoulder. Larry kept looking back and forth between us. Kenji had sworn my brother to silence. I was amazed that Larry actually listened. He hadn’t let out a peep in close to ten minutes. I knew because I’d been counting down every second.
My heart thudded in my ears, and my hands began to cramp.