Prisoner in the Kitchen

by William Bonham

  The first time they vanished, I made the mistake of asking Stutzke where they had gone. Stutzke, who already hated Martinez because he hated all young convicts, had an excess of venom because Martinez was supposed to be helping him. Alone with all the potatoes and onions, Stutzke was mad. At me. He looked up from the tub of potatoes in front of him and pointed toward the massive mound still behind him.

  “Why can’t you put somebody here who wants to do some work, for Christ’s sake? It’s not my goddamned job to watch these kids!”

  I headed for the side door to search for them.

  “Why don’t you get Morris over here?” Stutzke shouted. Morris, another old convict like Stutzke, had a bum leg.

  I stepped outside.

  “He could use a job where he can sit down!” Stutzke yelled. “Instead of these goddamn kids!”

  I left Stutzke with his shouting.

  I checked Aldrich’s usual spot, just outside the door. No sign of him or Martinez. Instead of walking back in the side door, passing Stutzke again, I went around back. Only Bear, steaming the garbage cans, stood there. I went in through the double doors at the rear of the kitchen, passing the office, and walked out to the dining hall, where I spotted them in the last row, smoking.

  “C’mon, get back to work,” I instructed.

  Martinez looked up at me, his face full of boredom and contempt. He drew in a lungful of smoke, held it, and let it out slowly.

  “I’m having a smoke,” he said, an eyebrow raised, his lip curled. Aldrich watched Martinez; I think he was surprised. Martinez looked like a jackass to me, with his cartoon young-boy disdain, but it must have appeared impressive to Aldrich.

  “Well, your smoke time’s over,” I said. “Get back to work.”

  As always, I turned and left, expecting them to follow me in short order. Aldrich, if he followed his usual pattern, would wait no longer than half a minute before he came. But several minutes went by and neither returned to the kitchen.

  So back I went. This time, Aldrich attempted a sneer himself; he must have known he could never roll a cigarette as well as Martinez, but may have believed he was Martinez’s equal in the contemptuous-looks department.

  “I want you guys back in the kitchen. Now,” I ordered.

  They stood, Martinez yawning. They followed me back to the kitchen, though not in any great hurry.

  This began a day or two of searching for, finding, and goading Martinez and Aldrich back to work, then holding them after their shift was over until they finished their work, hoping they would see that the only people they were harming were themselves.

  They didn’t see, and after a couple of days, their time was up; I’d given them every chance I could—more than anyone else would have. The next time they disappeared, I would write up a report and send them to segregation for a few days.

  Then, before there was a next time, a call came in to the office; I picked up the phone and found myself talking to a woman with a thick Mexican accent. At first, I had a hard time understanding her; she was saying something about “Juan,” then “John,” and something about her “boy.” Then . . . what was it? Another name: Martinez. There was only one Martinez in the kitchen.

  I didn’t know, until this moment, that anyone could call the prison switchboard, ask for the kitchen or any other department, and be put through. I doubt it had occurred to anyone, until it occurred to the mother of Juan Martinez.

  Even given her thick accent, her voice told me I was dealing with a heartbroken, desperate mother, trying with all her might to communicate.

  She wanted to know if her son still worked in the kitchen. I told her he did.

  Then she started pouring out her heart to me: Martinez was a good boy; he’d never been in trouble before. She wanted to know, was he all right? Was he there now, in the kitchen?

  From where I stood, I could see Martinez sitting next to an annoyed Stutzke. Stutzke peeled potatoes while Martinez sat, relaxing and smoking, enjoying the day’s gravity.

  Yes, I told her, he was in the kitchen now.

  Could she speak to him? Please . . .

  I almost let her. But no.

  She wanted to know if her son was doing a good job and working hard, probably because she knew he could then earn “good time” and leave the prison sooner.

  “He’s doing okay so far, Mrs. Martinez,” I said. “He’s still new, but I think he’ll end up doing a good job.”

  Crying, she thanked me and said good-bye.

  I don’t know what anyone else would have told her in the same situation. Martinez was a lousy worker. If he didn’t change, he’d simply rob or steal or sell drugs again when he got out. But someone else would have to tell her. I probably shouldn’t have talked to her at all.

  I waited until Martinez was alone before I approached him; I intended to lecture him, to ask if he wanted to spend his life hurting his mother, give him some fine inspirational speech to turn his life around. I looked down at him.

  “I just talked to your mother on the phone,” I said.

  Martinez looked up at me with his usual sneer.

  “She wanted to know if you were all right, and if you were doing a good job.”

  As he realized that I spoke the truth, Martinez’s sneer evaporated. He stared up at me like a little boy, vulnerable. “What did you tell her?” he asked.

  I let him hang there for a moment, wondering.

  “I told her you were fine,” I said, pausing. “I told her you were a good worker.”

  I went back to the office.

  Martinez owed me. He paid, too, in his own way. From then on, he worked with Stutzke—not hard, but he worked. He and Aldrich still vanished sometimes, but when I found them and told them to get back to work, Martinez stood first. Aldrich, puzzled, trailed along. We never spoke of the phone call again.

  The call made me long for the phone number of every convict’s mother. Let every inmate know that once a month he would get a report card, and that I would call his mother and read it to her. Better yet, I thought, we should bring all these women into the kitchen once a month to check the condition of the floors, the silverware, and the walk-ins—have the convicts watch as their mothers ran fingers along the steam table, checking for grease, then let these moms tell their boys how to do it right. Before leaving the prison, each mother could take a peek at her son’s cell and tell him to clean it up and get rid of the shivs.

  Men in prison don’t care what guards think, or what cooks think, or what the world thinks.

  But I bet one hell of a lot of them still want their mothers to believe in them.

  28

  THE FOURTH OF JULY

  Aldrich and Walker stood outside the kitchen, looking as if they might start dancing. They stood side by side, hips touching, with their arms around each other’s waist. They looked down at their feet.

  Curious, I asked them what they were up to. They raised their heads and smiled.

  “We’re practicing for the Fourth,” Aldrich explained. “There’s a three-legged race.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Hell no.”

  I thought it was the most asinine thing I’d ever heard—a convict Fourth of July celebration with party games. Why would they bother entering a three-legged race?

  “Smokes,” Aldrich said.

  “The winners get two packs of tailor-mades,” Walker clarified.

  “Two packs each,” Aldrich added.

  Cigarettes in a package—a fine prize for two convicts who had to roll their own, especially the cigarette-rolling-impaired Aldrich. They took off toward the gate, running fairly well.

  When they reached the fence they stopped and turned around. Again, they glanced down toward their feet. Walker’s legs extended several inches longer than Aldrich’s, and they started slowly, fine-tuning their gait. Mostly it fell to Walker, who had to shorten his stride to compensate for Aldrich’s stature. Gradually, they picked up speed, running back toward me as they searched for their own
natural, three-legged rhythm.

  “It looks good,” I said.

  But they weren’t quite confident yet, and Aldrich shook his head, looking at Walker. “Your legs are too long,” he said.

  Walker might have thought that Aldrich’s legs were too short, but he didn’t say so. “No, they’re not,” Walker argued.

  They repositioned themselves and took off toward the gate. This time it was a hair smoother.

  As I left work the following day, I stopped to watch again; in the span of twenty-four hours they’d become a well-oiled machine.

  “My money’s on you guys,” I told them.

  “We’re going to kick some ass tomorrow,” Aldrich boasted.

  As I started across the yard, Melton, the guard on Tower 4, called to me.

  “Hey! Hey! Bonham! What do you think you’re doing, letting those guys rub on each other?”

  Good old Melton, the man who’d dropped a .38 into the prison yard while playing fast draw.

  “They weren’t ‘rubbing’ on each other,” I shouted, “there’s a three-legged race tomorrow, and they were practicing.”

  Melton thought I was naïve.

  “They were copping feels,” he said, “and that’s not allowed.”

  “Copping feels.” I hadn’t heard that phrase since high school. Melton remained stern.

  “I’m going to have to report this to the lieutenant,” he said.

  That was fine. Lieutenant Covey could use a good laugh.

  It didn’t matter, anyway—all the crazed rubbing was over; Walker and Aldrich were ready. On the Fourth they would be in their prime, snorting and anxious to leave the gate.

  The Fourth of July proved to be my last good day at the prison.

  The morning began with a baseball game, which I didn’t see. But I wouldn’t have missed the three-legged race for anything.

  I spent the first part of the day, along with Bill and the two Bobs, helping prepare what may have been the best meal of the year.

  We had a menu no one could complain about: potato salad done right, with sliced boiled eggs on top, sprinkled with paprika for a little color; it looked real pretty. Macaroni salad, too, with sliced dill pickles. We had tossed green salad with Thousand Island dressing, and coleslaw, rolls, and watermelon. And the entrée? By God, it was chicken, the only time in the whole year we’d served chicken. We had one half per man—good-sized roasters that we split—rubbed with oil and salt and pepper and a little rosemary. We laid the chicken out on sheet pans and filled every damned oven, and when the rolls came out of the bakery we filled up the bakery oven, too.

  For dessert we had ice cream with chocolate sauce. The only things missing were nuts and little cherries.

  The line came through without a hitch. Well, one hitch—an old convict.

  “Haven’t you got anything but chicken?” he asked.

  Oh, well.

  No one filed into rows on the Fourth of July; they took their trays to the yard and sat in the sun. It was one big convict picnic, and the men ate until they groaned.

  The games began. First up was the three-legged race.

  We must have had twelve or fourteen teams of runners, legs tied together, standing in front of the hospital. The finish line was just in front of the dining hall, and I stood over to the side by Max, the judge, so I could see who crossed first. Several of the contestants had worked in the kitchen, either presently or in the past. I wondered how they’d stack up against Walker and Aldrich.

  “Ready, set . . . go!” a guard shouted. The teams took off. A couple crashed to the ground within the first twenty feet.

  Walker and Aldrich ran like greyhounds, with no one close behind. All the action was in the race for second place, which came with a prize of a single pack of cigarettes.

  Bowman and Carnahan, two students from the cooking school, crossed the line to take second place. Bowman, six feet tall and three hundred pounds, was god-awful overweight. His partner, Carnahan, tied to his right leg, stood five foot eight and 150 pounds. They ran well only because Bowman tilted his body to the left, lifting Carnahan so that Carnahan’s right leg pumped the air, his foot only occasionally brushing the ground. Bowman pounded across the finish line like an old locomotive, wheezing and close to a heart attack. He hit the ground face first, pulling Carnahan down with him. They’d beaten the third-place team by only a few steps.

  The third-place team, two nasty-looking convicts who worked in the laundry, weren’t happy. They stepped right up to Max.

  “Bowman cheated,” one accused.

  “Hold on, hold on,” Max said.

  The other member of the team shouted down at Bowman. “You cheated, you fucker!”

  Bowman was gasping like a dying bull, flat on his stomach and covered in sweat, unable to mount a defense. Carnahan, blameless, was on his stomach, too, tied to Bowman at mid-thigh, unable to turn over, rise to his knees, or untie himself.

  “This ain’t right,” one of the third-placers told Max, “those cigarettes belong to us!”

  “That’s enough, hold on now, wait a minute,” Max urged.

  No fight erupted, but if Max hadn’t been there, Bowman might well have been beaten half to death for cheating in a three-legged race.

  I went back to the kitchen, leaving Max to make a judgment call that might have stumped Solomon.

  One more meal had to be served that day, and late in the afternoon, after the games were over and the convicts returned to their cells, the men on fish row and segregation came through.

  I was surprised to see two familiar faces: Reed and Mackey. They’d had a good life out at Rothe Hall for the better part of a year, and I couldn’t imagine what stupid thing they must have done to get sent back inside. I gave each of them half a chicken.

  “Why are you guys back in here?” I asked.

  Their eyes had the same look—that of a kid who has no idea where the cookies went.

  “We don’t know,” Mackey said.

  Reed didn’t have a clue.

  They were lying.

  When Mackey reached the ice cream, he had a cooking tip for me. The chocolate sauce was too thin, and he held the ladle up, letting me see how very thin it was.

  “Next time, add some butter,” he said. “When it hits the ice cream, it will harden a little.”

  He was right, and I thanked him, still wondering what rule could have been worth breaking to give up life on easy street.

  Later I asked Peterson if he knew what Reed and Mackey had done to get evicted from paradise.

  “They raped an old man out at Rothe last night,” he told me.

  Stunned, I couldn’t say anything. Peterson explained further: It all had to be investigated, but the old man had reported that Reed and Mackey had raped him with a broomstick because he smelled bad and wouldn’t take a shower.

  “Are they sure?” I asked.

  “Pretty damn sure,” he said.

  I shouldn’t have been shocked, given Reed’s résumé. But I was. For the first time, I knew a victim—the old man at Rothe. Not well, but enough to picture him struggling on a bunk in the dorm, in the middle of the night, as Mackey and Reed held him down and wielded a broomstick.

  Peterson shook his head. “I guess if you can rape your daughter, you can rape an old man with a broomstick,” he said.

  Reed. His daughter.

  I’d been afraid his victim had been a child ever since that morning at Rothe Hall when Reed had said, “You know that girl I raped?” But I’d willed it out of my mind, unable to face it. Hearing the victim was his daughter caused me an almost physical pain.

  It’s a great long journey from suspecting to knowing. And knowing was a terrible thing. I tried to talk myself out of the whole, sick truth.

  His daughter. . . . Who knew when it had started? How old was she? Fourteen? Would her age have made some difference? Would I have felt better if I knew she was sixteen? Worse if she were twelve?

  Should I have crossed my fingers and hoped it was his st
epdaughter? Would that make it better? Might I have felt less revulsion if the girl had been a neighbor’s child?

  None of it mattered. A girl had been raped.

  Until then, I’d enjoyed Reed’s company far more than that of most men I’d worked with. He was exactly the kind of man I liked—friendly, straightforward, and funny. He was working-class smart, without a shred of pretense about him, and a hard worker who had no use for bullshit.

  Reconciling that man with the person he’d been revealed to be was impossible.

  Within a few days the two Bobs became the new cooks at Rothe. Mackey and Reed spent a week in segregation, then came back to cooking inside.

  Despite my personal feelings, it was my job to work with Reed, and I did. But something inside me shut down. He didn’t seem funny anymore. Whatever hope I had had that he could be rehabilitated evaporated.

  The one thing I lost at the prison—and it has never come back completely—was the faith I had in my ability to judge men. There are bad men, like Wills, that you know are evil at first sight. You can picture them lurking near a playground, you can see them taking those first steps toward a child. But there are more men like Reed, who give no clue that they’re capable of destroying a life.

  I was done with Reed.

  I was done with the prison, too, although I didn’t know it yet. I had satisfied any curiosity I had about working with bad guys. And my young-man worries about finding myself had gone as well. If I wasn’t a completely fearless man, well, so be it; at least I could deal with fear.

  For the first time, I felt like I was seeing the prison clearly. Now I had to keep working and saving money until I could find a way to leave this awful, brutal place.

  Until then, I’d just do my time.

  29

  STEVEN GREENE

  Steven Greene, just eighteen years old, was a robber.

  He and another boy had held up a grocery store. They walked in, the other boy holding a sawed-off shotgun, and threatened to shoot the clerk. They left with a magazine, a half-case of beer, and $201.40. A few days later, the cops captured them without a fuss. Greene pled guilty. The judge sentenced him to ten years.