Kill the dove!

by Francis Kroncke

  Chapter 13: Troublemaker

  It’s Friday of the first week in Segregation. Jared’s just eaten another pastel blue breakfast. He didn’t shower, as usual, or brush his teeth after eating. His hair’s uncombed. He’s being overcome by an ambushing funk. Tries to shake it away. Doesn’t want to give in. Gets up and goes over to the window, reaches as high as he can, sticks a fist of fingers through the steel screen holes and pulls himself up to look out at the sky. Fuck, it’s beautiful! Slowly, ever so slowly but steadily, inexorably, the heavens swirl and twirl down like a gigantic blue lid crushing a solitary pincher bug, squuuuissshhh!

  Dead. Jared knows he’s dead to the day. He drops down and goes back to bed. Blankets wrapped around pillows wrapped around his dreams.

  An hour later he’s awakened by the duty hack banging on the door with something—a gun? Pushing his paranoia behind him, he listens as the hack tells him that he’s to be interviewed around 10:30. “It’s 8 now,” he’s told without asking—the guard knows he has no clock. Jared rolls back under his covers. He wakes again, time unknown, as someone’s scratching at the keyhole. The cell door swings opens. Two other guards appear and brusquely order him to “Get up! Dress quickly!”

  As he starts to get ready, one taunts, “You’re a demonstrator! You going to demonstrate?” This challenge wakens the dull-eyed Jared and spreads a wry smile across his morning face. Ignoring the jibe, which is repeated three times, he buttons his shirt and casually walks towards the stairwell, mute. Downstairs, another guard motions Jared into an office to his left.

  As Jared grabs the doorknob, he reads the nameplate: CAPTAIN. When inside he counts four men already seated. No one rises to greet him. Three are civilians, the other is the Corridor Captain. As he sits down, one of the civilians says, “We know you’re here for your political activities. We want to set you straight at your initial footing. Millston is a good place. You’ll like it here. The men inside are not troublemakers. Anyone who makes trouble will get transferred—to some place like Marion or Leavenworth. There are plenty of things to do while you’re in here and you can put your time to good use, if—if you use your brain. There’s no reason why you should get into trouble, if you pull your own time.”

  Another civilian instantly picks up the conversation. “We don’t like agitators and we won’t put up with any funny stuff. This is a fine prison. The food’s better than at any other Institution. We’re quite proud of how things are going.”

  The conversation—is it scripted?—is maintained solely by these two. They take chorusing parts as in a rehearsed performance. The Captain and the other civilian remain silent.

  Jared listens to what they are telling him, time and again, about what a good place Millston is, how much it offers, and that they hope he’ll put his time to good use. Something, however, isn’t settling just right. So he asks, “Do you want to know what I think?”

  At that, both officials abruptly terminate their duet. It is so abrupt that he realizes this is what they want.

  “Just what do you intend to do?”

  “I have some preconceived notions as to what prisons are, but basically I’m open to the experience.”

  This simple remark catches them short. They look at him with intense expectation, waiting for more.

  “Okay?” he says.

  “Don’t be a wiseass with us, sonny,” the Captain slaps at him. “We know your background. You can play chameleon with us but rattlers can’t change the pitch of their rattles.”

  Then the last civilian breaks his silence. “There’s no room for political speaking in here. This isn’t a place for soapbox oratory.”

  “Hey, man,” Jared stands up, “I’m not in here to organize.”

  This reflex gesture of standing is straightaway defined, as only prison can define even the simple act of standing, as aggressive and one hack escort steps quickly and positions both his hands on Jared’s shoulders, a slight downward pressure clearly indicating his wishes. Again, in reflex, Jared sits back down, unaware that by so doing he has defused the situation. He continues with a steady tone.

  “Unless . . . unless there are some civil rights being violated. If you do that, then I can’t tell how I’ll react.”

  The room stills and quiets. All four captors shift, rub hands, scratch notes, pull and tug at ears, chins, ruffle hair. Then the first civilian, who Jared later learns is the Associate Warden, warns him, “I should tell you we have many FBI reports about you. We know everything about your kind.”

  Jared wonders what “kind” he is. As if responding to his internal question, the Captain tells him, “You’re a bad soul. It’s that simple. You and your friends—the Berrigans, Mulligan and the Milwaukee 14, the Chicago 15, the Beaver 55—you think we don’t know everything?” He waits to see how this affects Jared. He doesn’t flinch.

  Then the AW continues, “I’m a Catholic. I consider myself a devoted son of the Church. I want you to know from the start that I have a special interest in you. You’re a bad soul.” Castigating, nasty, “You’ve been Called and you deserted your Call. You desecrated the words of Jesus and the teachings of the Church.”

  Following that, the Captain half-stands, crouches across the table, comes within half-a-body of Jared, successfully effecting a closeness of communication—private eyes.

  “I know . . . I know about the Underground. I know about how you have helped deserters get into Canada. I know about the stolen draft cards and stamps you sent to Vancouver. I know about your theology.” He screws up his eyes. “Know this, I’ve even read what you’ve written and I know,” as he backs away, stands straight up, full height for emphasis, “more than any others in this room—I would say more than any others in the System—what you’ve done. How you’ve done it. Who you’ve done it with and why. I know how you think and how you dream!”

  Erect, the Captain is one impressive figure; monumental. He’s clearly the posturing jock. Now with moral power pulling from within his words, he is Michael the Archangel become flesh. The Captain is a master at conducting these Adjustment Committee first meetings. Although not aware of the group’s title, Jared knows that he’s not the first nor will he be the last to appreciate this guy’s talent. The cadence, the confidence, the ability to summon power either angelic or daimonic, it all has a familiar ring to Jared. Then it comes to him: Will he conclude by stating, “I’m a former Jesuit myself”?

  “He was that good?” others often ask.

  “Yep.”

  Back in his cell Jared immediately slinks back under blankets and pillow. Says out loud, muffled, mocking himself, “Fucking-A, how you dream!” He pulls a blanket tighter over and around his head. Speaking back to the Captain, “Fucking-A, you don’t know how I dream!”

  Jared doesn’t want to admit that anyone can get that far inside him. But on another level he knows that this is just what is happening. He doesn’t know how it’s happening, doesn’t know if he’ll ever know, but he has to deal with it. He doesn’t know if they have special powers or whether being caged cracks open one’s soul and spirit without one’s being aware. He imagines them stabbing each con with a big, candy-striped straw and then sucking . . . sucking and fucking sucking and sucking fucking until they have sucked every inmate’s mind and soul out of his body.

  Although not physically ill with a doctor’s handbook illness, Jared, this day, feels sucked dry.

  He falls back to sleep, dreamless.