Sweeter Life

by Tim Wynveen

  A BONE-WHITE SKY, a high, roaring mountain-bound wind that, inside the wall, they could hear but not feel; out on the court, someone bouncing a ball, shoop, shoop, shoop, regular as clockwork; around the yard the syncopated barks and wheezes of massed manhood, the here-and-there commotion of simple roughhouse. A vamp is all, everyone waiting for the note, that single soulful wail that would call them in—a blue note if ever there was one.

  And when it came, when the siren sounded, they stopped—grey-suited, grey of face, some of them with grey hair, as if they had inhaled too much dust from this place and were, by degrees, turning to stone—then made their way across the loose gravel of the exercise yard. No one spoke; no one laughed. Some were edgy as blades; some polished to an alabaster sheen. For most of them, it was the saddest part of the day.

  A stone archway connected the yard to the main quadrangle. There in the darker shadows, where three weeks before someone had been stabbed to death, Hank watched his man pause a moment to tie his boot, Golden Reynolds acting like he didn’t have a care in the world. The others passed by without notice, but Hank angled across the archway until he and Goldie stood facing each other. They jostled a moment, like passing strangers on a busy downtown street, and only the most observant bystander would have noticed Hank pressing fifty dollars into Goldie’s palm, receiving in return a small portable radio in black leather, about the size of a Bible, which he tucked under his shirt.

  “Batteries?” Hank asked.

  And Goldie, a loose-limbed kid as slick as a whip, looked off into the distance and said, “Everything’s cool.”

  Without another word, Hank continued threading his way inside the cold stone fortress, up granite ramps that had been rutted by the footfall of misery, down dank corridors and up three flights of metal stairs to his cell. His heart raced like a getaway car. He was asking for trouble. No music allowed outside of specified hours, and certainly no music allowed in the cells. Nappy Whitlock got himself ten days in solitary for the same thing.

  Much later, after lights out, Hank worked up the nerve to take his new possession out of hiding. He crouched on the floor between the toilet and his bed. He uncoiled a thin black wire, at the end of which was a small plastic nub that he nestled in his ear. Then he turned on the radio and extended the long chrome antenna, tilting it this way and that. But all he got was static, un-differentiated mostly, here and there thickening into larger clumps of noise. The stone, he figured. Nothing could penetrate it. Fifty bucks shot to hell.

  He tucked the radio inside his mattress where no one would find it. Then he rolled onto the bed and buried his face beneath his pillow. It was the racket he couldn’t stand. And the light. After all this time it still bothered him. He’d been a country boy once. He knew quiet. He knew darkness. He knew open ground and arching sky, and it was nothing like this. So after an hour or so of tossing and turning, he walked to his cell door and pressed his face against the metal bars. They felt cool against his skin. He could hear the guards playing gin on the second level. Closer at hand, Nelson Green’s whispered prayers for salvation were punctuated by the moans of Moe Fletcher, their primitive duet sung against a ceaseless chorus of coughing and crying and the babble of sleep-talk.

  The main cellblock was a perfect square, four storeys high, with twenty cells on each side, on each level. Each cell faced a narrow walkway the guards patrolled, a waist-high railing for safety, and beyond that a vast column of empty space. At any time Hank could see a hundred other cells just like his, with a hundred other stories just as sad. The prison was designed that way, he believed, to remind the inmates that they were nothing special. Like chickens in a pen, he thought. Doomed creatures.

  The empty space beyond the railings, a good hundred feet across and four storeys high, magnified every whisper, every moan. Occasionally a prisoner in a lighter mood would test the distance with a paper airplane. Sometimes a bird got in and flew about the space in a panic, and the men would whistle madly, hoping to coax the stupid thing to their cells. About a year ago at morning roll call, Willie Brown, maybe thinking he was a bird, stepped out of his cell and said, “Oh, Lord,” then vaulted over the railing. It took them weeks to remove his stain from the stone floor below.

  Hank wasn’t a jumper. Mostly he liked to stand at his door and peer into the middle distance and try to imagine a future for himself. What he’d figured out so far was that if he ever did get out of there, he might like to spend the rest of his days outdoors. A park ranger, maybe. Not too many people to deal with in a job like that, he guessed. Not a lot of stress. The kind of job where they could maybe forgive a man for what he’d done. A park ranger at the Grand Canyon, maybe. That sounded good.

  So when he couldn’t sleep, this is what he’d do: he’d walk to his cell door and stand with his forehead resting on the iron bars. He’d peer into that open space until he could picture himself in the khakis and tan shirt, the big wide-brimmed hat and leather boots. As clear as something on TV, he would see himself sitting behind the wheel of a jeep, no other people around him, nothing at all except maybe a mountain goat picking its way along the edge to something green.

  A SINGLE KILLDEER led Cyrus all the way down to the Bailey bridge near the marina. The wind off the lake had gotten stronger, colder, and he had begun to regret his decision to walk to school. So when Sam Loach came barrelling down the Marsh Road in his rusted pickup and stopped to offer a ride, Cyrus accepted.

  “Seen Benny out there in your old man’s field,” Sam said. “Guess he figures to beat the rains.” He laughed, a wheezy sort of chuckle. “Ain’t one of us ever done that. Don’t know why he keeps on.”

  Cyrus kept his opinion to himself. He didn’t much like Sam Loach or any of his family. They went about all things in a half-assed way, and that included their farm. There was no way Cyrus would criticize anyone in front of Sam.

  The Loaches farmed the same kind of land the Owens had farmed: reclaimed marsh, dense and black. It wasn’t the best soil in the area. For that you’d have to go north of the ridge to sandy well-drained loam that stood up to a tractor even a few weeks after spring melt. Some of those farms to the north already had a few early crops in. By contrast, marshland, even with the tile beds and the pumps, held the moisture like a sponge. No one in fifty years had gotten all his crops in before the end of May. And even when you could get on the land, you were limited in the crops you could grow. The marsh never generated the kind of heat units you got north of town. It had never made anyone rich, that’s for sure. There wasn’t a single family out there who had ever amounted to a hill of beans.

  This year, however, things had been different. The winter had been drier and the rains later than anyone could remember. A downpour had been predicted every day for more than a week, but so far not a drop had fallen. As a result, Benny had been on his tractor, getting his hopes up. More power to him, Cyrus thought.

  Sam dropped him off at the main intersection of town. Each corner had its own bank and, since the centennial celebration three years before, a sorry-looking maple in a square cement pot. The shopping district stretched north, south, east and west of the four corners but nowhere near as far as the eye could see.

  Because it was too early yet to head over to the school, Cyrus turned east onto Talbot Street. He walked past the china shop and hardware store. In front of the Vogue Theatre he stopped to watch Po Mosely.

  Po had been a fixture of Wilbury for as long as Cyrus could remember. Most adults crossed the street rather than pass him on the sidewalk; most kids spent at least some part of their childhood tormenting him. Not that Po was the kind to get angry or chase. He was a retard, that’s all, more funny-looking than ugly. He wore hand-me-down grey suits and battered brogues. Could be the shoes were hand-me-down as well because he had a hotfoot kind of walk, all scrambled and unsteady. He sure did a lot of walking, though. You never saw him when he wasn’t cruising the streets in that hoppy hurried gait of his. And if he ever saw a piece of paper on the sidewalk or grass—a gu
m wrapper, newspaper, bus ticket, anything—he would stoop down without missing a step and try to toss the offending piece of litter onto the road, often having to circle back two or three times before it was properly disposed of in the gutter. That’s what he was doing now, making sure the sidewalk in front of the Vogue was free of ticket stubs.

  Cyrus liked Po, or rather he liked the idea of Po, that at least one thing in Wilbury was different and off-kilter. When Cyrus imagined New York or Chicago, he pictured a crazy carnival of sight and sound and character—the kind of place where a guy like Po would fit right in, the kind of place that Cyrus couldn’t wait to explore.

  After a minute or so, Cyrus moved farther along the street to Star Radio, a fusty repair shop for all things electrical—radios, TVs, vacuum cleaners. There in the window, on sale by consignment, was a Les Paul Standard. Cyrus knew it had to be a 1953 or 1954 model because the pickups were black plastic rectangles instead of the later and more common humbucking pickups, which were chrome-plated. It had a Tune-O-Matic bridge and a gold top. Between the pickups someone had stuck a small decal for STP oil treatment. The guitar rested on a rickety metal stand.

  Cyrus had been eyeing the Les Paul for nearly a week. He couldn’t figure out what it was doing in Wilbury, in Star Radio of all places. Everyone played a Les Paul—Eric Clapton, Keith Richards, Jeff Beck—the Stradivarius of rock-and-roll guitars. Its appearance in town had started him really thinking about what he wanted in life. And the answer, more and more, seemed tangled up with that golden instrument.

  While Cyrus stood there, Geordie Jackson came out and smiled at him. Geordie was a great big slab of a man. He coached the local hockey team, the Wilbury Wings. He kept his red hair trimmed in an armed forces buzz cut, the kind of bristly thing you could scrape your boots on.

  “Can’t help noticin’ you got yer eye on that there guitar,” Geordie said. “Come and see how she feels. Belongs to the wife’s kid brother. Up and joined the navy a while back. Don’t think he ever played it much.”

  Cyrus lifted the instrument from its stand and cradled it in his arms, surprised at the weight of it, as if it were made of pure gold. When he crouched on the floor and started tuning, he noticed a small crack in the head between the first and second tuning pegs of the treble strings. “Look,” he said, not critically but softly, like a doctor exploring a wound.

  Geordie leaned over and made a farting sound with his lips, a little blooper. “That there’s just a little nick, Cy, what we call a surface crack. Happens all the time and such. But you know, between you and me, that’s gotta knock the price down some. Reece, that’s the wife’s brother, he was say-in’ how he wanted $170, as high as maybe $200 for the thing, but that seems a bit steep to me. And beings as it’s you and a good kid and all, and how I knew your old man real well, I’d say $150 would wrap it up—the case, the cord there, the strap, the whole kit and caboodle. I’d even throw in the stand while we’re at it. I got no use for it.”

  Cyrus stood again and looked out the window as a milk truck rattled past. Then he closed his eyes and pictured Ruby standing in the kitchen. He imagined himself in a suit at graduation. Finally he turned back to Geordie, patted his pocket and said, “You take a cheque?” Ten minutes later he was outside again, holding a case so heavy and solid it made him feel serious and grown-up and real.

  School was out of the question now, of course, so he headed straight over to the Three Links Hall where he and his band, Bluestone, had a rehearsal space. Byron Young, Janice’s dad, was some grand poohbah in the Oddfellows and for five bucks a month rented them one of the spare rooms upstairs as long as they didn’t rehearse on lodge night. It was cool beyond belief to have their own private hangout.

  Cyrus fired up his amplifier and blazed away for about an hour, trying every lick he knew. Although the Les Paul felt nothing like his Harmony and would take some getting used to, it was a brilliant instrument. The Harmony was a beginner’s axe, something his uncle had bought for him. It certainly had never made him feel like this, like a star, like a pro. He launched into the opening riff of “Born Under a Bad Sign.” That’s when he noticed Janice standing in the doorway.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked. “Get bounced from class again?”

  She stepped farther into the room. “Never mind me. What are you doing here? And what the hell is that?”

  For the hundredth time that morning, Cyrus held the guitar out from his body so he could admire it. “This,” he said, “is a sign from God. Totally freaking me out. And you’ll never guess where I found it. Star fucking Radio. A hundred and fifty bucks.”

  “Get out.”

  “One-fifty. I couldn’t believe it. I mean I don’t even want to think what it might be worth. It is a sign from God.” And they both laughed then and embraced, the guitar wedged between them.

  Janice was the band’s singer and the closest thing he had to a best friend. Ever since the summer, they had been messing around in private, not like love or anything and, from his point of view, not even like major desire, but just because she wanted to and he didn’t mind, because she was soft and sweet and funny and knew him better than he knew himself, because her eyes were so full of mischief and green and sometimes sadness; and even though she was not exactly his physical type—a small-time Janis Joplin was how he thought of her, with her wild halo of red hair, with her freckles and chunky arms and her heavy, mannish way of moving around—the truth was he liked kissing her cheeks, so soft and fragrant, and fumbling around in the dark, and especially the afternoons upstairs in her bed, because, really, when he thought about it, most likely they weren’t, either one of them, going to get much else.

  Barely able to contain himself, he led her over to the battered sofa in the corner and sat beside her, still holding the guitar. He looked across the room to the plaque on the wall, the motto of the Three Links Fraternity: Friendship, Love and Truth. Then he kissed her lightly on the temple and unburdened himself of his secret plan. “You are the first to know,” he said.

  HANK SOON REALIZED the radio was not an entire loss. Even the sound of static was preferable to the din of this place—the swearing, the night terrors, the violence, the guards’ squeaky shoes as they paced the corridors. Someone had told him once that radio static was the sound of outer space, a pretty cool idea, so he crawled beneath the covers and gave himself up once again to the electronic hiss. More than the universe, it reminded him of the sound of wind in the trees, waves on a distant shore. And what he wouldn’t give for the accompanying smells instead of this damp stone and mildew and potato rot, all of it topped off with industrial disinfectant. Even here, way up on the third floor, it always smelled as though he was underground.

  He shifted a bit in bed, nestling the radio closer to his body. That small movement brought the antenna to rest against the metal bed frame. Like magic, the clot of static suddenly became a voice, low and jive and full of broken parts.

  “Howhowhow, you lis’nin’ to the lowdown, brothers and sisters, you lis’nin to the Catfish. Spinnin’ the discs that take the risk. Dishin’ you all the platters that matter. Catfish got the numbers gonna make you feel right. Catfish got the numbers take you awww through the night. And here’s a little number what jus’ come in gonna smooth your creases, gonna move your pieces. A little somethin’ called ‘JimJam’ …”

  Organ, bass and drums vamping quietly in the background. And then a different voice, rich and resonant and full of calm.

  I’d like to tell you a story now, if I may, about a man,

  you know, a man who had all that he wanted,

  not on a golden platter but earned by the sweat of his brow, the luck

  of his draw, the way he looked at the world and turned

  it to his advantage, and how this man, a friend of mine, you know,

  a fellow I’d known all my life like I might know my brother,

  this man, this friend, he comes to me one day pullin’ at his hair, his face

  all crazy, his
eyes like to pop right out of their sockets

  with grief, and he says to me, “Jimmy, my life is over. It’s ashes. Tell me

  what to do now, now that my life is over.

  Tell me, tell me now, tell me: What on earth am I goin’ to do?”

  The band is right there, loping behind the voice in a rhythm that seems to have a mind of its own.

  Now, you can picture it, right? You can see me, how I stared real hard

  at my friend—his fancy suits, his Italian shoes,

  the diamond pinkie ring—and placed my hands on his head the way

  you’ve all seen me do before, you know what I’m talkin’,

  waitin’ for the words to come to me, waitin’ for the words, searchin’ for a way

  I could help this friend of mine so filled with sorrow.

  And it wasn’t easy, let me tell you, but finally, you know, I said

  to him: “It matters not what you have done,

  but if what you say is true, if this life is indeed over,

  then it is time to move on, time to end

  this life and somehow, someway, choose another, find that place

  you can call your own. And if you can’t look forward,

  then look back.

  Maybe it’s true. Maybe it’s true your life

  is over. Maybe you don’t have no future at all.

  But we’ve all got a past. Look back, I tell you. You gotta, you gotta look back.”

  Just like that the voice and the music come to an abrupt halt, waiting through two full bars, though it seems but a minor skip of the heart. Then: