Sleepers. Part 23

I looked around the block, gray, shiny, and still, winter light from outside merging with the glare of overhead fluorescents that were kept on twenty-four hours a day. In its silence, Wilkinson looked serene, cell doors open, floors glistening, steam from large central radiators keeping out the cold winds of winter.

The peace was not meant to hold. Wilkinson was a prison on the brim of a riot. Rizzo had been right. The guards did not take kindly to our playing them even. The day after the game, all inmate privileges were canceled. The late-night beatings and abuse accelerated to the point where no inmate felt safe. The most minor infraction, ignored in the past, was now cause for the most severe punishment.

For their part, the inmates were stirred by Rizzo's death and the conditions in which the rest of the team were released from the isolation ward. Makeshift weapons-zip guns, sharpened spoons stuck into wooden bases, mattress coils twisted into bra.s.s knuckles-now appeared in every cell block. The inmates still obeyed every order, but their faces were now masked by defiance.

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I WAS HALFWAY WAS HALFWAY down the corridor when I saw Wilson on the circular staircase, making his way to the third tier. Wilson was the only black guard in our cell block and the only guard who shunned the physical attacks enjoyed by his coworkers. He was a big man, a onetime semi-pro football player with a scarred knee and a waistline that stretched the limits of his uniform. He smoked nonstop, and always had an open pack of Smith Brothers cherry cough drops in his back pocket. He had a wide smile stained yellow by the smoke, and big hands topped by thick, almost-blue fingers. The inmates called him Marlboro. down the corridor when I saw Wilson on the circular staircase, making his way to the third tier. Wilson was the only black guard in our cell block and the only guard who shunned the physical attacks enjoyed by his coworkers. He was a big man, a onetime semi-pro football player with a scarred knee and a waistline that stretched the limits of his uniform. He smoked nonstop, and always had an open pack of Smith Brothers cherry cough drops in his back pocket. He had a wide smile stained yellow by the smoke, and big hands topped by thick, almost-blue fingers. The inmates called him Marlboro.

Marlboro was older than the other guards by a good ten years and had two younger brothers who held similar jobs at other state homes. In summer months he was known to smuggle in an occasional six-pack to some of the older inmates.

He was also Rizzo's connection to the outside.

"Seem to be doin' a good job," he said when he reached my end of the hall, his breath coming in short spurts, a long stream of smoke flowing out his nose. "You take to the mop real good."

"Some people do," I said. "Some people teach."

"Got that right," he said, laughing, a rumble of a cough starting in his chest.

"How many of those you go through a day?" I said, pointing to the lit cigarette in his hand.

"Three," he said. "Maybe four."

"Packs?"

"We all got habits, son," Marlboro said. "Some that are good. Some that are bad."

I went back to mopping the floor, moving the wet strands from side to side, careful not to let water droplets slip over the edge of the tier.

"How much more time you got?" Marlboro said from behind me. "Before they let you out."

"Seven months if they keep me to term," I said. "Less if they don't."

"You be out by spring," Marlboro said. "Only the baddest apples do full runs."

"Or end up dead," I said.

Marlboro lit a fresh cigarette with the back end of a smolder between his fingers, tossed the old one over the side, and swallowed a mouth of smoke.

"Rizzo was my friend," Marlboro said. "I didn't have a piece of what went down."

"Didn't break your a.s.s to stop it," I said.

"Look around, son," Marlboro said, cigarette clenched between his teeth, veins thick on his bulky arms. "You see a lot of other n.i.g.g.e.r guards around here?"

"Guards is all I see around here," I said. is all I see around here," I said.

"I got me a good job," Marlboro said. "Work is steady. Pension, if I make it, a good one. Vacation and holidays are paid, and every other weekend belongs to me and my lady."

"And it keeps you in cigarettes," I said.

"I hate hate what they do to you and the other boys," Marlboro said, cigarette out of his mouth, sadness etched across the stark contours of his face. what they do to you and the other boys," Marlboro said, cigarette out of his mouth, sadness etched across the stark contours of his face. "Hate "Hate what they did to Rizzo. That boy was blood to me. But there ain't nothin' I can do. Nothin' I can say gonna change this place." what they did to Rizzo. That boy was blood to me. But there ain't nothin' I can do. Nothin' I can say gonna change this place."

I put the mop back into the pail and ran it through the wringer, hands on the top end of the handle, eyes on Marlboro.

"You ever hit a kid?" I asked.

"Never," Marlboro said. "Never will. Don't get me wrong. There's some mean sons of b.i.t.c.hes in here could take a beatin.' But it ain't what I do. Ain't part of the job. Least not the job I took."

"How do the other guards feel about you?"

"I'm a n.i.g.g.e.r to them," Marlboro said. "They probably think I'm no better than any of you. Maybe worse."

"They always been like this?"

"Since I been here," Marlboro said. "Goin' on three years come this June."

"How about you and Nokes?" I asked.

"I do my work and keep my distance," Marlboro said. "He does the same."

"What's his deal?" I said.

"Same as the others," Marlboro said. "They don't like who they are. They don't like where they are."

"There's lots of people like that," I said. "Where I live, every man I know feels that way. But they don't go around doing the s.h.i.t Nokes and his crew pull."

"Maybe they different kind of men," Marlboro said. "Nokes and his boys, they ain't seen much of life and what they seen they don't like. You grow up like that, most times, you grow up feelin' empty. And that's what they are. Empty. Nothin' inside. Nothin' out."

"What about the warden?" I asked, leaning the mop handle against the rail. "The people on his staff. They've got got to know what goes on." to know what goes on."

"But they act act like they don't," Marlboro said, taking still another drag. "Same as the town folk. like they don't," Marlboro said, taking still another drag. "Same as the town folk. n.o.body n.o.body wants to know. What happens to you don't touch them." wants to know. What happens to you don't touch them."

"So they dummy up," I said.

"That's the jump," Marlboro said. "And don't forget, from where these folks stand, you you the bad guys. Nokes and his boys, they ain't gonna break into people's homes. Ain't gonna hold 'em up at gunpoint. You the guys pull that s.h.i.t. That's why you here to begin with. So don't expect no tears. To them that's free, you the bad guys. Nokes and his boys, they ain't gonna break into people's homes. Ain't gonna hold 'em up at gunpoint. You the guys pull that s.h.i.t. That's why you here to begin with. So don't expect no tears. To them that's free, you belong belong inside." inside."

"You've got all the answers," I said to Marlboro, pushing the water pail farther down the center of the floor.

"If I did, I wouldn't need a state check every two weeks," he said. "I just know what I know."

"I've got to finish up," I said, pointing down to the rest of the corridor.

"And I gotta get me some more cigarettes," Marlboro said. "That give us both somethin' to do."

He moved away with a wave, a snap to his walk, his baton slapping against the railing bars. A small pattern of crushed cigarette b.u.t.ts lay in the spot where he had stood.

"You know there's no smoking on the tiers?" I shouted after him.

"What they gonna do?" Marlboro turned to face me, a grin soread across his face. "Arrest me?"

10.

MY HANDS WERE folded behind my head, resting against my pillow, a thin sheet raised to my chin. It was late on a Sat.u.r.day night, one week after Valentine's Day. Outside, heavy snow fell, white flakes pounding the thick gla.s.s. I was fighting a cold, my nose stuffed, my eyes watery, a wad of toilet paper bunched in my right hand. My throat was raw and it hurt to swallow. folded behind my head, resting against my pillow, a thin sheet raised to my chin. It was late on a Sat.u.r.day night, one week after Valentine's Day. Outside, heavy snow fell, white flakes pounding the thick gla.s.s. I was fighting a cold, my nose stuffed, my eyes watery, a wad of toilet paper bunched in my right hand. My throat was raw and it hurt to swallow.

I thought about my mother, wishing I had a cup of her ricota ricota to take away the aches and chills. She would fill a large pot with water and set it to boil, throw in three sliced apples and lemons, two tea bags, two spoonfuls of honey, and a half-gla.s.s of Italian whiskey. She boiled everything down until the contents were just enough to fill a large coffee cup. to take away the aches and chills. She would fill a large pot with water and set it to boil, throw in three sliced apples and lemons, two tea bags, two spoonfuls of honey, and a half-gla.s.s of Italian whiskey. She boiled everything down until the contents were just enough to fill a large coffee cup.

"Put this on," she would say, handing me the heaviest sweater we owned. "And drink this down. Now. While it's hot."

"Sweat everything right outta you," my father would say, standing behind her. "Better than penicillin. Cheaper too."

I tried to sleep, closing my eyes to the noises coming from outside my cell. I willed myself back to my h.e.l.l's Kitchen apartment, sipping my mother's witches' brew, watching her smile when I handed her back an empty cup. But I was too tense and too sick to find rest.

A number of the inmates, as tough as they acted during the day, would often cry themselves to sleep at night, their wails creeping through the cell walls like ghostly pleas.

There were other cries too.

These differed from those filled with fear and loneliness. They were lower and m.u.f.fled, the sounds of pained anguish, raw cries that begged for escape, for a freedom that never came.

Those cries can be heard through the thickest walls. They can cut through concrete and skin and reach deep into the dark parts of a lost boy's soul. They are cries that change the course of a life, that trample innocence and snuff out goodness.

They are cries that once heard can never be erased from memory.

On this winter night, those cries belonged to my friend John.

The darkness of my cell covered me like a mask, my eyes searching the night, waiting for the shouts to die down, praying for morning sun. I sat up in my cot, curled in a corner, wiped sweat from my upper lip, and cleaned my nose with the toilet paper. I shut my eyes and capped both hands over my ears, rocking back and forth, my back slapping against the cold wall behind me.

The door to my cell swung open, thick light filtering in, outside noise coming in on a wave. Ferguson stood in the doorway, beer bottle in one hand, baton in the other. He had a two-day growth of beard on his face and his thin head of hair looked oily and in need of a wash. His heavy eyelids always gave him a sleepy appearance and the skin around his thin lips was chapped, a small row of pimples forming at the edges.

"I just f.u.c.ked your little friend," he said, his speech slurred, his body swaying.

He took three steps into the cell.

I rolled off the cot and stood across from him, my eyes on his, toilet paper still in my hand.

"Take your clothes off," Ferguson said, moving the beer bottle to his lips. "Then get back in bed. I wanna play with you for a while."

"No," I said.

"What was that?" Ferguson asked, taking the bottle away from his face, smiling, his head at half-tilt. "What did you say to me?"

"No," I said. "I'm not taking my clothes off and I'm not gettin' into bed."

Ferguson moved closer, his feet sliding across the hard floor.

"You know what you need?" he said, smile still on his face. "You need a drink. Loosen you up a little. So, have your drink. Then we'll play."

He lifted the beer bottle above my head and emptied it. Streams of cold beer ran down my face and shirt, my mouth and eyes closed to the flow, puddles forming around my feet. Ferguson wiped the beer from my face with the fingers of his hand.

He put his fingers in his mouth and licked them dry.

"There's all kinds of ways to drink beer," he said, throwing the bottle on my cot. "And there's all kinds of ways to f.u.c.k."

Ferguson threw his baton on the cot and watched it land inches from the bottle. He turned back to me and undid the buckle of his belt and lowered the zipper of his pants with one hand.

He ran the other hand across my face and chest.

"You're right," Ferguson said in a whisper. "You don't have to take off your clothes, you don't want to. And you don't have to get back in your bed."

"Please, Ferguson," I said, my voice barely audible. "Don't do this."

"Don't do what, sweet thing?" Ferguson asked, his eyes gla.s.sy, rubbing my chest harder, bringing his hand lower.

"Don't do what you're doin'," I said.

"But I thought you liked it," Ferguson said. "I thought all you boys liked it."

"We don't," I said. "We don't."

"That's too bad," Ferguson said, his face close to mine, his breath a foul mix of beer and smoke. "'Cause I like it. I like it a lot."

Ferguson ran his hand past my chest and up to my face and along my neck, resting it against the back of my head. He moved even closer to me, placing his face on my shoulder.

"Take my d.i.c.k out," Ferguson said.

I didn't move, my eyes closed, my feet still, Ferguson's weight heavy against my body, his breath warm on the sides of my face.

"C'mon, sweet thing," Ferguson whispered. "Take it out. I'll do the rest."

I opened my eyes and saw John standing in the doorway.

He had a makeshift knife in his hand.

John moved out of the light and into the darkness of the cell. He was naked except for a pair of briefs, stained red with blood, and one sock drooping down the sides of his ankle. He was breathing through his mouth and kept the knife, held to his hand by a rubber guard, flat by his leg.

"Don't be afraid, sweet thing," Ferguson whispered in my ear. "Take it out. It's ready for you."

"I'm not afraid," I said.

"Then do it," Ferguson said.

"Move out of the light," I said. "It hurts my eyes."