“For not making me think I’m just spinning my wheels in here,” Carlson said. “That somebody, even if it is only one student, listens.”
“You’re a good teacher, Mr. Carlson,” I said. “You’re just stuck with a bad bunch.”
“I can’t imagine being locked in here,” Carlson said. “For one night, let alone months.”
“I can’t imagine it either,” I said.
“It’s not what I thought it would be like,” Carlson said with a slow shake of his head.
“I don’t think it’s what anybody thought it would be,” I said.
“No, I suppose not,” Carlson said.
“Listen, I’ve got to run,” I said. “Thank you again for the book. It means a lot.”
“Will the guards let you keep it?” Carlson asked.
“They won’t know I’ve got it,” I told him.
“We can discuss the book in class on Friday,” Carlson said. “That’s if you think the Count can hold their attention.”
“He’s got a shot,” I smiled.
“Any special section I should read from?” Carlson asked, snapping his leather bag shut.
“That’s easy,” I said, moving toward the door, book in my hand. “The part when he escapes from prison.”
12
IT WAS MY first time inside the guards’ quarters, a series of lockers, couches, bunks, shower stalls, soda machines, and coffeemakers spread through four large rooms at the back end of C block. The rooms smelled of old clothes and damp tile and the floors were dusty and stained, cigarette butts scattered in the corners. Floor lamps, covers torn and smeared, cast small circles of light, keeping the quarters in a state of semidarkness. Dirty clothes were tossed on the floor and on the furniture. A large framed photo of the Wilkinson Home for Boys, taken during a snowbound winter many years earlier, hung in the main room.
Nokes sat behind a desk, its top cluttered with memos, open binders, a tape recorder, two phones, a handful of magazines, and open packs of cigarettes. A thick toaster-size cardboard box, its center slit open, rested in the middle.
“You asked to see me?” I said, standing in front of him.
“Hang on a second, soldier,” Nokes said. “I wanna get the other guys for this.”
Nokes lifted the phone off its cradle and pressed a yellow intercom button.
“Get off your asses,” he shouted into the speaker. “He’s here.”
Addison, Styler, and Ferguson walked in from a side room, each in various stages of undress. Ferguson had shaving cream along his face and neck, a straight razor in his hands. Styler, naked except for a pair of white briefs, was smoking a cigar with a plastic tip. Addison held a folded paper in one hand and a slice of pepperoni pizza in the other.
They stood behind Nokes, their attention more on the box than on me.
“You know the rules about mail?” Nokes asked, looking up at me, an unlit cigarette clenched between his teeth. “About what you can get and what you can’t?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I know them.”
“You can’t know ’em too fuckin’ well,” Nokes said, a finger pointing to the open box. “Havin’ your mother send all this shit.”
“That box’s from my mother?” I asked.
“I mean, look at this shit,” Nokes said to the three guards surrounding him, ignoring my question. “Where the fuck she think her son is at, the army?”
“What the fuck is this?” Styler asked, his hand pulling out a small jar filled with roasted peppers in olive oil.
“The warden is supposed to clear the mail,” I said. “Not the guards.”
“Well, the warden ain’t around,” Nokes said. “And when he ain’t around, we clear it.”
“None of the shit I see would get past the warden,” Styler said. “Ain’t none of it on the approved list.”
“I’m sure your mama got a copy of that list,” Addison said. “It gets sent to all the parents.”
“My mother doesn’t read English,” I said.
“Don’t blame us for her being stupid,” Nokes said, tossing a jar of artichoke hearts to Styler.
“Those are things she made,” I said. “Things she knows I like. She didn’t look to do anything wrong.”
“Other than have a jackoff for a son,” Styler said, opening the jar and putting it to his nose.
“Can I have the box?” I asked. “Please?”
“Sure,” Nokes said. “The box is yours. What’s in it is ours. That seem fair?”
“Is there anything in there other than food?” I asked, my hands bunched in fists by my sides.
“Just this.” Nokes held up a brown set of rosary beads. “Mean anything to you?”
“More than they would mean to you,” I said.
“Suppose you’d like to have them, then?” Styler said, his mouth filled with artichoke hearts.
“They belong to me,” I told him.
“What do you do with these things?” Nokes asked, fingering the rosary beads in his hand.
“You pray,” I said.
“Fuckin’ losers like you ain’t got a prayer,” Styler said.
“Take the food, Nokes,” I said. “All of it. Just let me have the beads.”
Styler walked around the desk and came up alongside me, one of his arms around my shoulders.
“You gonna let us hear you pray?” he asked me.
“I like to do it alone,” I said, my eyes still on Nokes. “It works better that way.”
“Like jerkin’ off,” Addison said.
“Just this once,” Styler said, smiling and winking at the other three. “Let us hear you.”
“Maybe he needs something to pray about,” Nokes said, reaching a hand under the desk, coming up with a black baton.
He gave the baton to Styler, who took it with his free hand, pushing me closer to his side.
“Put your hands on the desk,” Styler said to me. “Lay them down flat.”
“And start thinkin’ up some prayers,” Addison said.
My hands were inches from the box my mother had sent. Styler spread my legs apart and pushed down my pants, tearing off the top button with the force of his effort. Nokes laid the brown rosary beads across both sets of my knuckles. I felt Styler’s hands rub against the base of my back, his skin coarse, his manner rough.
“Remember, fucker,” Nokes said, eating my mother’s peppers with his hands. “We want to hear you pray. Loud!”
Styler put an arm around my stomach and slid the front end of the baton inside me. The pain came in a rush, leg muscles cramping, chest heaving, stomach tied in a knifelike nerve of knots.
“We can’t hear no prayers,” Nokes said.
“You better start.” Ferguson had a terrible smile on his face. “Before Styler there loses his baton up your ass.”
“‘Our Father,’” I said, my lips barely moving, my breath short, my lungs on fire. “‘Who art in heaven.’”
“Nice and loud,” Styler said from behind me. “Pray nice and loud.”
“‘Hallowed be thy name,’” I said, tears falling down the sides of my face. “‘Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done.’”
“Don’t say come in front of Styler,” Nokes said with a loud laugh. “You don’t wanna get him excited.”
“‘On earth as it is in heaven,’” I said, my legs starting to buckle, my body damp with cold sweat. “‘And forgive us our trespasses …’”
“That part must be about us,” Addison said, his eyes wide, his tongue licking at his lips.
“‘As we forgive those,’” I said, my hands starting to slide off the desk, knuckles still gripping the rosary beads. “‘Who trespass against us.’”
“Louder, fucker!” Nokes said, standing now, holding my face with two hands. “Make like you’re in a fuckin’ church.”
“‘And lead us not into temptation,’” I said, the room around me a shifting blur, my arms and legs empty of feeling. “‘But deliver us from evil.’”
“Too fuckin’ late for that
now, loser,” Styler said as he released me and let my body crumple to the floor. “Too fuckin’ late.”
I WOKE UP in my cell, on my cot, my pants still wrapped around my knees. I was shivering, sheet and blanket under me, my body numb to movement. The rosary beads were still in my hand, the cross wedged into my palm. I brought the beads to my lips slowly, and kissed them.
I opened my eyes, looked out into the darkness, and cried till the sun came up.
Spring 1968
13
MICHAEL HIT THE handball against the cement wall, watching it one-bounce its way toward John, who waited for it near the middle of the white divider line. I played off the back line, alongside Tommy, my mind more on the weather than on the game.
It was early afternoon and warm for a mid-April day. The sun was still strong, scattered rays bouncing off the hardened tar floor and onto our arms, legs, and faces. The air was dry, humidity low, soft breeze blowing at our backs.
The handball court was seldom free: the black inmates had co-opted the area as part of their domain. But, for now, they were out of the picture, joined together in organized protest, a reflection of their outrage over the murder earlier in the month of Martin Luther King, Jr. They stayed in their cells and refused to engage in any prison activity, insisting that even meals be brought to them. Initially, the guards reacted as expected, with intimidation and force, but the inmates held firm, anger and pride keeping the rules of the prison at bay. The warden, fearing outside attention, ordered the guards to back off and allow the protest to flame itself out.
The ball came in a dark blur toward Tommy, who took two quick steps back, balanced his weight, swung his hand, and missed. He turned around, picked up the ball, and tossed it back to Michael.
“I don’t get this game,” Tommy said. “I don’t understand it at all.”
“That makes me really glad you’re on my team,” I said.
“What’s the point?” Tommy asked.
“We don’t have any points,” I said. “Michael and John, they have all the points. Go ask them.”
“It’s six to nothing,” Michael said, walking toward me, bouncing the ball against the tar, his right hand wrapped in heavy black adhesive tape. “You wanna switch sides?”
“How about we take a break?” I said. “I’m not used to getting this much sun.”
“There ain’t much shade around here,” Michael said.
“Let’s go near the trees,” I said. “The guards can still see us from there and it’s gotta be cooler.”
We walked past the wall, wiping sweat from our faces and arms, toward a small chestnut tree with drooping limbs, the duty guard following us with his eyes.
We sat around the tree, our arms spread behind us, legs rubbing against grass, staring out at the square-shaped brick façade of C block, our home these past seven months.
“Nice view,” John said.
“Just looks like any other place from here,” Tommy said. “It don’t look like what it is.”
“I’ll never forget what it looks like,” I said. “Or what it is.”
“You might,” Michael said. “If you’re lucky.”
“They give you your release date yet?” Tommy asked me.
“Nokes had the letter from the warden,” I said. “He waved it in front of me. Then he tore it up.”
“When do you figure?” Michael asked.
“End of June,” I said. “Maybe early July. Something like that.”
“I wish we were goin’ with you,” John said, his voice crammed with sadness. “Woulda been nice for us to all walk out together.”
“I wish you were too,” I said, smiling over at him.
“No use thinking about it,” Michael said. “We’re gonna do a full year. Not an hour less.”
“I could talk to Father Bobby after I get out,” I said. “Maybe he could make some calls, shave a month or two off.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” John said.
“There’s lots to talk about, Johnny,” I said. “Maybe if people knew what goes on in here, they’d make a move.”
“I don’t want anybody to know, Shakes,” John said, the center of his eyes filling with tears. “Not Father Bobby or King Benny or Fat Mancho. Not my mother. Not anybody.”
“I don’t either,” Tommy said. “I wouldn’t know what to say to anybody that did know.”
“What about you?” I asked, turning my head toward Michael. “You gonna stay quiet?”
“I can’t think of anybody who needs to hear about it,” Michael said. “Guys did time in this place or places like it, they know what went on. Those who didn’t won’t believe it or won’t give a shit. Either way, it’s nothin’ but a waste of time.”
“I don’t even think we should talk about it,” John said. “Once it’s over.”
“I want it buried too, Shakes,” Tommy said. “I want it buried as deep as it can go.”
“We’ve got to live with it,” Michael said. “And talking makes living it harder.”
“People might ask,” I said.
“Let ’em,” Michael said, standing up, brushing loose grass off the back of his sweats. “Let ’em ask, let ’em think. But the truth stays with us.”
“Just be glad you’re going home, Shakes,” John said. “Forget everything else.”
“And try to stay out of trouble till we get back,” Michael said.
“That should be easy,” I said. “Without you guys around.”
“What’s the first thing you’re gonna do when you get back?” John asked.
“Go to the library,” I said. “Sit there for as long as I want. Look through any book I want. Not have to get up when somebody blows a whistle. Just sit there and listen to the quiet.”
“Know what I miss the most?” Tommy asked in a sad tone, his face up to the sun, his eyes closed.
“What?” John said.
“Running under an open johnny pump late at night,” Tommy said. “Water cold as winter. Stoops filled with people eatin’ pretzels and drinkin’ beers outta paper bags. Music coming out of open windows and parked cars. Girls smilin’ at us from inside their doorways. Shit, it was like heaven.”
“Two slices of hot pizza and an Italian ice at Mimi’s is heaven,” I said.
“Walkin’ with Carol down by the piers,” Michael said. “Holdin’ her hand. Kissing her on a corner. That’s hard to beat.”
“What about you, John?” I asked.
“I don’t want to be afraid of the dark again,” John said in a voice coated with despair. “Or hear an open door in the middle of the night. And I don’t wanna be touched, don’t wanna feel anybody’s hands on me. Wanna be able to sleep, not worry about what’s gonna happen or who’s comin’ in. If I can get that, I’d be happy. I’d be in heaven. Or close to it.”
“Someday, John,” Michael said. “I promise that.”
“We all promise that,” I said.
In the short distance behind us, a guard’s whistle blew. Overhead, rain clouds gathered, darkening the skies, hiding the sun in their mist.
14
THE PRISON CAFETERIA was crowded, long rows of wooden tables filled with tin trays and inmates elbowing their way through a macaroni and cheese dinner. Each inmate had twenty minutes to eat a meal, which included time spent on the serving line, finding a seat, and dropping an empty tray on the assembly wheel in the back of the large room. Talking was not permitted during mealtime and we were never allowed to question either what we were given to eat or the amount doled out.
The food was usually at the low end of the frozen food chain, heavy on processed meat, eggs, cheese, and potatoes, weak on vegetables and fruit. Each table sat sixteen inmates, eight to a bench. One guard was assigned to every three tables.
As with every other social situation at Wilkinson, the dining area offered limited opportunities to make friends. The guards were always wary of cliques forming or expanding and moved quickly to split up any such attempts. This left the inmates with no choic
e but to stick to their original alliances. Living in an atmosphere that stressed survival above all else, random friendships posed too great a risk, for they required a level of trust that no one was willing to concede. It was safer to stay within your own group.
I was fourth on the serving line, standing a few feet behind Michael, empty trays held in our hands. A blank-faced counterman dropped an empty plate on each of our trays, his head rocking up and down, rolling to its own private rhythm. Farther down the line, I grabbed for two spoons and an empty tin cup.
“Can you see what we’re having?” I asked Michael.
“Whatever it is, it’s covered with brown gravy.”
“All our meals are covered with brown gravy.”
“They must think we like it,” Michael said. Then he turned off the line and moved to his left, his tray filled with dark meat, gray potatoes, a small hard roll, and a cup of water, looking for a place for us to sit. He headed for the back of the room, where there were two spots. I followed, right behind him.
The spaces between the tables were narrow, wide enough for only one person at a time to make his way through. The guards stood to the sides, their eyes focused on the tables assigned them. They controlled who left his seat and who sat in his place, all accomplished with hand gestures, nods, and shoulder taps. It was a system that functioned through precision and obedience, guards and inmates merged in an assembly line of human movement. There was no room for error, no space for accidents, no place for a mental lapse.
No time to bring the assembly line to a halt.
Michael was halfway down the row of tables, his eyes focused on two seats in the rear of the room. I was directly behind him, followed by a short teenager with a limp. None of us saw the inmate on Michael’s left stand and begin to move out of his row.
Michael moved three steps forward, the edge of his tray barely grazing the arm of the inmate walking toward him on his left. The inmate shot his arm against the tray and sent it skyward, out of Michael’s hands and crashing to the floor in full view of a guard.
Michael whirled to face the inmate who called himself K.C. and who was now standing with a smile on his face and his hands balled into fists. “What the fuck you do that for?”
Sleepers Page 21