The Warden's Son

by C. G. Cooper

  The me of minutes ago might have yelled at him.

  “Is he gone?”

  I nodded.

  “Did you apologize?”

  Another nod.

  “I’m proud of you, Jimmy. You won’t know this until you’re older, but one of the hardest things an adult can do is apologize. Wars have started for that.”

  He pointed at a seat. I refused.

  “What’s wrong with him, Carlisle?”

  “He’s an alcoholic.”

  “Like you?”

  “Kind of.”

  “And you’re going to help him?”

  “As much as I can.”

  “Why?”

  “Because when a man asks for help, you help him.”

  “Still, he’s a bad man. He’s evil.”

  “Evil is what a man does, not what a man is. Anyway, that’s not for me to decide, Jimmy. I’m just a man. All I know is that he made bad choices, choices that helped him feel better about himself, if only for a short time. The way we think about ourselves is stronger than anything. It cuts through falsehood. It eats at you until you can do nothing but evil.”

  “He said Dad’s in trouble.”

  “Right.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Listen, Jimmy. Some things can’t be spoken of aloud. You have to find out for yourself. I’ll help you when I can.”

  “So, what do I do next?”

  “I think the answer would be obvious to a gumshoe like yourself.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about. I was just a kid. As if I didn’t have enough to think about: I’d lost my best friend, I’d run face-first into a tree, and I’d seen something terrible. How could I have the answer to anything? I was a pawn on a chessboard.

  Then it hit—the first clue.

  The key. We had to find out what door that key opened.

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Carlisle and I agreed that no one in prison should know what we were trying to do. Especially not, Dad.

  “He’s got enough on his plate,” Carlisle said. “Can you keep the secret?”

  “Of course.”

  “You swear?”

  “Pinky swear.”

  He gave me a funny look. “What’s a pinky swear?”

  I showed him. My display elicited a chuckle.

  “Okay. Pinky swear.” He mimicked my demonstration, and we both grinned. The search was on.

  Days went by without a lick of luck. I kept my mouth shut and Carlisle snooped around the prison. Each day he’d give me a thorough rundown of where he’d searched.

  “Never realized there were so many doors in the place,” he said one day while going over a garden ledger. He was deep into planning the upcoming seeding schedule. He had grand plans to grow giant watermelons. “It’s like now that I’m looking for doors and locks, they’re everywhere.”

  “I went on a quest with Kenji once in our D&D game. We went searching for treasure and had to go into this dark cave filled with giant spiders.”

  Carlisle shuddered. “Sounds nasty.”

  I laughed. Then the memory of my friend took hold of my breath. Carlisle noticed.

  “Y’okay?”

  “Do you think he’s an angel?”

  “Kenji? I know he is,” Carlisle answered without a shred of hesitation.

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  Carlisle looked up from his ledger. “Why doesn’t it make sense?”

  “Have you ever seen an angel?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever heard an angel?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you know they exist?”

  That natural smile spread from his lips to the crooks of his eyes. “I have faith.”

  That’s all he said. He didn’t explain. He didn’t extoll the benefits of believing or not. He said it in a way that made it final, like when you say something is black or white. It just is.

  I wanted that faith. I just didn’t know how to get it.

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  One night, Denny Bell came over for dinner. It was a welcome distraction. I didn’t usually like guests. Mom would make a fuss and make me put on a button-down shirt, but I didn’t mind doing that for Denny.

  “Hey, champ,” he said, offering a high five.

  I met his hand mid-air.

  “Ouch!” he shook his hand comically. “Woah! You been lifting weights?”

  “Nah.” I puffed my chest out. Denny was one of those adults that made you feel good about yourself. My admiration for him had only grown since meeting him for the first time.

  He always waved when he drove by or stopped to say a few words. Denny knew what to say. Always.

  “So, what’s cookin’? You make me a T-bone steak with mashed potatoes?” He licked his lips in anticipation. It made me feel bad for not lifting a finger to help Mom in the kitchen.

  “Not this time,” I replied sheepishly.

  He grinned that movie star grin and then followed me inside.

  Dinner was a lopsided conversation. Dad brought up work a few times; however, Denny deftly steered it back to something more mundane, whether it be the outlook for the upcoming Super Bowl or the chance of snow in the coming days. Dad took it in stride. I could tell that he liked Denny too. Or maybe he was distracted. Probably both.

  When dinner was over, and we had licked the remnant of dessert from our plates (Mom made a killer cherry pie), we kids were told to leave the table and play until bedtime.

  “Thanks again for dinner, champ,” Denny said, hand poised for another high five.

  I slapped his hand, noting the distant look in Dad’s face as I passed. “See you around, Denny.”

  “You got it.”

  “What about me?” Larry asked, jumping up and down for the same treatment.

  Denny held up a hand, and Larry slapped it with glee.

  “Yikes! Another strong Allen man,” Denny said, shaking his hand as if he’d high-fived a giant.

  Larry giggled and ran from the room.

  As I left the room, all I could think of was how it was possible to have seen what I had through Denny’s window, and how that correlated with the awesome guy I was leaving at the dinner table. It didn’t make sense. Then again, at the time, nothing made much sense.

  Chapter Eighty

  Mom helped Larry brush his teeth while I slipped into my pajamas. Then we switched, and I closed the door to the bathroom.

  “Don’t lock the door, James.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  There was no need to lock the door, but I was ten. I needed my privacy. Larry had a bad habit of barging in on me when I was doing my business.

  I closed the door, grabbed some dental floss, and went to work. I was getting to my second molars when Dad’s voice came through the air vent.

  “You need to keep an eye on them,” Dad said.

  “Not a problem, Warden,” Denny replied.

  “I don’t like the look of this, but I don’t have a say in the matter right now.”

  “I’m sure it’s just a precaution.”

  I bent down so I could hear every word.

  “We need to get this place ship-shape before the month is out,” Dad said with characteristic authority. You know, I could swear I detected a little bit of something I wasn’t used to hearing from the stalwart warden: fear.

  “We’ll get things right back to where—“

  The next words were drowned out by knocks on the bathroom door.

  “Hurry up, James. You don’t want to miss storytime.”

  “Coming!” I hurried to finished flossing and then brushing, all the while wondering what it was that had my father so stressed.

  Come to think of it; he hadn’t been the same since that night with the bottle.

  Chapter Eighty-One

  I was on my way to the bus stop the next morning when I got part of the answer. A van passed
by headed to the front gate of the prison. Four dour faces stared out at me—new guards, each with the look of a gallows hangman. They gave me the creeps.

  I watched them unload at the gate and check-in with the guards. The guards my dad had either hired or inherited ran the gamut of size and appearance, from a six-foot-seven giant to a beanpole farmer who looked like he might fall over when he farted. The old guards were black, white, or in-between. They had one thing in common, with very few exceptions: they were good men. They were Dad’s men.

  These new guards were different. There was a hardness there that radiated cruelty. Perhaps it was my imagination, and the instances of that terrible year had colored my vision. But I was beyond such cool rationalizations. I saw what I saw, and it frightened me.

  Two of them seemed to make a special effort to find me as I found my seat on the bus, and stare at me as we cruised away from the prison.

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Dad was in a foul mood when he came home that night, chain-smoking like a man on death row, scowling at every one of us. Even Larry, who was typically oblivious to such things, gave my father a wide berth.

  “I’m not hungry,” Dad announced after Mom had set the rest of dinner on the table.

  She made a face only I could see and said, “I’ll leave you a plate in the fridge.”

  Dad grumbled something and disappeared to the living room where he puffed away like a runaway train.

  “Is Daddy okay?” Larry whispered.

  “He’s fine,” Mom said. “James, why don’t you say grace.”

  I was too curious to groan.

  The three remaining Allens clasped hands.

  “Lord,” I began, “thank you for this food, and thank you for family . . .”

  I’m not sure how I finished the prayer, because only half my brain thought about what I was saying. The other half couldn’t get away from the fact that Dad was worried. As worried as I’d ever seen him. And that made me worry. And wonder.

  He reappeared after dinner; a bit lighter in his mood.

  “How’s about you and I have a chat?” he said, clapping me on the back.

  I went to my room with Dad on my heels and took a seat on my bed. Dad pulled up the chair from my desk and placed it methodically in front of me. Then he went to the door and closed it slowly and quietly.

  “James, can we talk man to man?”

  “Sure, Dad.”

  He shook out a cigarette from his omnipresent pack, then made a frustrated face as he realized where he was. Mom had a hard and fast rule about not smoking in bedrooms, primarily mine and Larry’s. He held the cig in his hand, rolling it between his fingers nervously.

  “It’s okay,” I said, meaning the smokes.

  He looked at me then, not like his son, but I liked to think like a man. A peer. A cocked and wry grin. “Nah. Your mother would kill me. Then bring me back to life so she could kill me again.”

  We both laughed at this. It was forced. My stomach was tight.

  “I know I haven’t been here . . . for you,” he said as he scratched his stubbly chin. I had only just now noticed it. The man was always clean-shaven as if his facial hair didn’t grow at all. “I . . . what I’m trying to say is . . . I’m sorry.”

  I sat and waited for him to continue. Seconds were ticking by along with my thumpin’ heart.

  “James,” he finally continued, “I’ve never let work affect what happens in this house. You probably don’t think that, nonetheless, I haven’t. You should see some wardens. Hell, I’ve canned more guards for wife-beating than prisoner-beating.” He rolled the cigarette from one finger to another, like a magic trick. “I don’t want you to think that I don’t care. Your granddaddy, well, he never gave me the time of day until I was twenty-one. We shared a beer together, and that was that. I was a man, and he was a man. That was it.” I could almost imagine my father and granddad, sitting on some long-forgotten front porch, sipping warm beer, and not saying a word. The Allen men were not known for their verbosity.

  “I know you care, Dad,” I said suddenly.

  “You do?”

  “Sure.”

  “Hmm.”

  He put the cigarette in his mouth, lit it, and took a drag so long I thought every pore of his body might expel smoke when he was done.

  “Dad, is everything okay?”

  He didn’t immediately answer. He stared at the window for a long time. Then, when I thought he was going to answer, he stood instead. “Get some sleep, James.”

  And he left. No explanation. No ‘goodnight, son.’

  His exit was anticlimactic, leaving me with even more questions that I couldn’t ask.

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  I didn’t sleep that night, but for a dream that I had. My dad stood in the center of a ring of dancing guards in the middle of the prison laundry room. Each held a black trident in his hand and wore red horns that stuck through their uniform caps. Their eyes were vertical instead of horizontal, and when they opened their mouths, a sound like the lowing of cows came out. I watched them from behind a washing machine. Then one of them turned and saw me, grinned a mouthful of yellow teeth, and came at me with the trident. I woke up just as the points touched my throat.

  The dream so unnerved me that not even humming Def Leppard to myself worked to calm me down. I stared at the ceiling where the faces of those guards appeared and lingered like the afterburn splotches of a flashbulb. It was two in the morning when I finally gave up. Sweat-slick and still pondering that last conversation with Dad, I walked to the kitchen. Maybe a snack and glass of milk would do the trick.

  I snatched a leftover half of a bologna sandwich and a pickle from the fridge, then poured myself a glass of milk. I took the snack into the living room. Headlights shone through the curtains. Guard patrol. Another passed by, going the same way. Late night party, I thought.

  I’d finished my sandwich and half of the milk when the third set of headlights flashed by.

  Strange.

  I glanced at the clock—half-past two.

  Still wired, I thought maybe some fresh air would do me some good.

  I crept out the squeakless front door. I made it out with ease, slipping on my outdoor shoes on the porch. It was cold, close to freezing. I should’ve grabbed a coat.

  Another set of headlights showed up from the prison, probably the front gate. I hid behind my cabin fort and watched the sedan roll by. It was one of the new guards. Had to be. He was in uniform; one arm draped out the window despite the chill.

  When the car passed, I snuck around the side of the house and watched as the taillights passed the Bell’s house. Why were these cars traveling in a slow succession heading out to the fields? My fields. But why? There was no way I was going to pass this opportunity up. Could this be the answer to all the riddles? By morning I’d have the clues in my pockets, and the guilty parties would be mine. At least that’s what I saw in my head.

  Off I went, somehow keeping pace with the car up ahead. The guard had to be careful because there were night-hidden holes everywhere. He wasn’t taking any chances. Lucky me.

  I knew which areas to avoid. Even with the moon at only a sliver, I saw the way. Days upon days of running and traipsing over the miles had my legs ready for the trudge. Not only that, I probably could’ve done the run blindfolded.

  The car went over a slight rise in the road and then disappeared. When I hit the higher ground, I saw the taillights again. No other light in the direction the car was going.

  I did the navigation in my head. There wasn’t anything out this way, only patches of trees here and there. No buildings. No nothing.

  I jogged on, now glad that I hadn’t worn a coat. It was easy to keep pace and watch for hidden logs and ankle-deep streams.

  I was getting a stitch in my side when the taillights went red. Then white. Then they were gone. No more than a hundred yards ahead. Time to be extra careful.

  Taking a circuitous route to my destination, it took a good five minu
tes to see where the car had settled. There were four more rectangular shadows. I thought they might be the cars I’d seen drive-by earlier.

  I was in a crouch now, creeping forward in what I figured was an appropriately spy-like pace.

  A car door closed.

  Closer now. Twenty yards away. Red lights arrayed in a group; all were pointing at the ground.

  “Took you long enough,” a voice said.

  “That fucking Warden.”

  “I’ll bet you were yankin’ it,” another voice piped in.

  “Fuck you.”

  “Watch your damn mouth,” said the first voice.

  I was ten yards away and counted five men. I couldn’t see their faces and could barely make out their shapes. They had to be the new guards.

  “Everyone knows the plan, right?” asked first voice.

  “Jeez. You have us come way out here to ask us that?”

  There was a snicker from the group. Then the telltale rack of a shotgun.

  “What, you gonna shoot me with that?”

  “Not now, but I will once this is over if you don’t shut your mouth and listen.”

  “Can we get this done? I’m beat.”

  “Yeah, that warden is running my ass hard,” another man said.

  “Holy hell, what a bunch of sissies,” said first voice. “Twenty-four hours. You can’t put up with it for another twenty-four hours without bitching?”

  Twenty-four hours. Until what?

  “If we ain’t bitchin’—”

  “Enough,” said the first man. “Get the bags.”

  There was a rattle of keys, and a car door slammed. I took the chance to move left to a copse of trees I’d once hidden behind for an hour as Larry looked for me. When I settled in the hiding spot, I looked out. There’d been no trying to hush the noise. Nobody would hear them out here anyway, just me.

  Yet, when my eyes trained on where they’d been, there was only blackness. No shadows. No red lights. Not even the flick of a lighter. Nothing.