“Don't talk to me about being fair. I was more than fair. But you know what? You can't be fair to wild animals. You know why? Because they don't have any conscience, that's why. Think how it is, if you can manage it. Your nose crushed and kicked upside down. Your teeth busted off at the gums from the boot of a white trash nigger. Seven ribs cracked. Your testicles crushed. Splinters all through your rectum and intestines from a broken broomstick. That's what they did to me, those low-life animals. I got two goddamn steel plates in my face! An artificial nose! Pulverized cheekbones!
“That young white-trash nigger, the one who kicked my face in? He's going to get his, one day. That son-of-a-bitch maxed out his sentence last month! Can you believe that! But I know where he lives. I got his address and one day I might just find that white nigger and see how bad he is without his other nigger friends. That black nigger who broke that stick off in me? His days are numbered, too, just as sure as I'm sitting here. There ain't a prison in this state where he's safe.
“Nobody knows how something like this affects your whole life. Some of my fellow officers were beaten and tortured, too, and they're already back to work. I'm not one of them. With all the metal in my face, I get these god-awful headaches when it gets cold. I don't leave the house much any more, either. It ain't safe out there. My wife Marge wanted me to go out to dinner on her birthday last week, and I finally gave in after she cried like a goddamn baby for two days. When we got to the restaurant I had to sit with my back against the wall so I could see the front door. I can't stand to have anyone behind me.
“Lately my doctor's been dropping little hints that I might soon be ready to go back to work. He's off his rocker. Tell me how somebody in my condition's supposed to work. Long as I got insurance and my paycheck coming every two weeks, I ain't never going back in that den of niggers. No, sirree.
“Marge keeps bugging me too, about going back to work. One day last week, she left a note for me on the kitchen table. I read it and laughed like a goddamn maniac before I broke every piece of china we owned:
Dear Wayne,
You know that I love you very much. But I can't go on like this much longer. Please, for the sake of our marriage and the kids, please consider going back to work. Or maybe you could find a new job. I don't know how much longer I can go on working two jobs and taking care of you and the boys when I get home. I love you, Wayne, and I just want things to be the way they used to be, that's all. Please don't be mad.Love, Marge
“That's what her note said. 'Please don't be mad.' Well, next week that psychiatrist will be turning in his recommendation as to whether I'm healthy enough to return to work. If he says I got to go back, I might just drive down to the city ghetto and turn vigilante. I might just kill me a nigger. Black. White. It wouldn't matter to me.
“As for Marge, I'm not worried about her. She'd never leave me. We made a pact a long time ago. Besides, she knows I'd probably go off the deep end if she ever did.”
chapter nineteen
THE DAY THE PRISON REOPENED, Fat Daddy reclaimed Donnie Blossom and then proceeded to give him a vicious ass whipping for reasons Fat Daddy called general principle. Donnie reciprocated with a homecoming present of his own-a needle and syringe and two fat balloons of heroin. Fat Daddy kissed him for it, then got his last nod on.
In his mind, Donnie still watches Fat Daddy careening backwards onto his bunk, his limbs flopping spasmodically, as if a giant sledgehammer had hit him. Donnie backs out of the cell sloshing the jar's last drops of liquid over the bed sheets, the polyester rugs, and the two cardboard boxes containing everything Fat Daddy owns. He thumbs back the lighter's starter, touches the flame to a red bandanna and tosses it with a deft casualness. The loud whump! blows his hair back as a ball of flame shoots up within the cell. He stares at the ink-black smoke freight-training from the doorway as he closes the cell door, drops the bolt and attaches the lock. He takes the back steps two at a time, savoring the faintly sweet smell of gasoline that trails behind him.
DR. B.J. DALLET TRADED in her marriage and luxurious home on a tree-lined street in the suburbs for a young sculptor named Fiorenzo and a cozy studio apartment in the city. Resilient and reclaimed, she is on the move again, healthy and transformed. She still sees her star pupil, though only once a month now. Each time, she brings him an armful of books and new friends. Now she thinks of her simple needs: silk scarves, French manicures, a steady lover. Now her fountain of youth is in the living, all things in moderation.
OLIVER'S VINDICATION TOOK months but it came. He would return to his old cell around the corner from Oyster, and two tiers below Early. It was a glorious morning the day they released him. For the first time in fifteen months he was able to go outside, but the blessing was mixed. So violet was the sky that he couldn't help contrasting its ultra beauty with the catastrophic sight of a gutted courtyard. Gone was the little clapboard chapel, demolished by the same yellow caterpillar that had dug up the flowers and shrubs and sidewalks, that tore up the hundred-year-old oak tree from its roots; that leveled the redbrick Home Block and sliced through the sheet rock and two-by-fours of the Young Guns Boxing Gym and the Free Yourself Law Library. The chapel steps where the born-agains had sat on summer evenings praying and gossiping were now lying upside down on a heap of broken walls in the corner of the courtyard. Oliver was devastated by the demolition of what was once a street with clean little whitewashed buildings and a lovely church steeple for a skyline. Now the place was nothing but a barren lot of packed dirt.
He walked down Turk's Street and stopped in the education building to see Mr. Sommers and the others. Rhoda Cherry welcomed him back and shocked him when she told him the news about Mr. Sommers. Oliver's good friend and former boss had recently accepted a position as an assistant professor at a local college. “Mr. Sommers said he'd be in touch with you, Oliver. I'm your new boss now. Other than that, nothing else has changed.”
At lunchtime he found Early, Oyster and Peabo, and the four friends sat on a concrete slab where the third base bleachers used to be. The air was cool. The pizza for lunch was so fine. Four lifers sitting on a cold slab of concrete, marveling over each other's presence, and startled by the gutted landscape that used to be a neighborhood. When Oliver started humming a Peter, Paul and Mary song, Early said, “My flowers may be gone, but we're still here. What I can't figure out is where all the birds have gone. Hasn't been a single blackbird fly over this place all spring.”
“Or a pigeon, either,” said Oyster, “thank the good Lord. We thought maybe your gallbladder operation had something to do with it, Early.”
“That's the stupidest thing I ever heard,” said Early, turning to Oyster and frowning.
“Why? You wasn't around for six months. Who else was going to feed them? Hambone couldn't.”
“Hambone was in the riot too?”
“No,” said Peabo. “He tried to get pussy from that she-cat he was feeding. The cat damn near scratched his eyes out.” They all laughed hysterically.
After he took a deep breath, Oliver said, “Maybe the stench of death is keeping the birds away.”
“That's as good a guess as any,” Early answered.
To their right, manning the number one gun tower, Sergeant Mervis Dewey eyed the glistening swirls of concertina wire circling along the top of the wall, placed there no doubt to discourage any would-be copy-cats. Better late than never, Oliver thought. Standing beneath the tower was blind Milo tapping his red and silver cane back and forth against the concrete. Oliver stood and wiped his hands on a little paper napkin. “Think I'll go say hello to Milo,” he said.
“Don't get mad if he calls you Knuckle Head Smith or something worse,” warned Oyster.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“When was the last time you talked to him?”
“I don't know. It's been a good while.”
“I thought so. Nurse Blanche say he's got that old-timers' disease.” Oyster said, laughing.
“Goddammit, Oyster!
How many times do I have to tell you? He's got Alzheimer's disease, Oliver,” Early said. “Oyster, that shit isn't funny one bit.”
“Who said it was? All I'm saying is he don't know you or me from a can of paint.”
“Hey, lighten up, Early,” Oliver said. “Sometimes a man has to laugh to keep from crying, doesn't he, Oyster?” They sat in silence for a while, still appraising the landscape, or lack of one. After a few minutes, Oliver said, “Any good news you can give me, Early?”
“Yeah. I.M. White's black ass got canned.”
“Yeah, I heard.”
HE MOVED BACK AND FORTH in front of the mirror to catch a glimpse of himself. He was grinning. His green eyes were shining and he was as eager and happy as he had ever been.
Fifteen minutes later he was wishing he had a box of bonbons for the attractive journalist who strolled into his classroom, swinging a tote bag at her hip, her canary yellow and electric blue paisley skirt swirling around her legs. “Hello, Oliver Priddy,” Hope Best said, setting her bag on the desk and gliding toward him like an ice skater. “Someone we both know asked me to give you a hug. Is it okay?”
Oliver glanced at the prisoners who were on the trail of her scent and curves outside his classroom door. “I'll let you know when it's safe. How's that?” Oliver said. He sat at a desk in the front of the room and watched her tan legs disappear under her long skirt as she sat cross-legged in the comfortable chair he had arranged for her to sit in. She placed her notebook in her lap and opened it to a page of handwritten notes. Oliver lifted the back of his hand to his mouth and squeezed the soft flesh into his teeth. He didn't want to derail her in any way-shake her out of proportion to her naïveté. He smiled and said in a matter of fact tone, “I hate to say this, but if a certain person sees you sitting on their precious furniture like that I'm going to hear about it later, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, my. Really? I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking.” She smiled and gracefully placed her feet on the floor and Oliver said, “You were just being yourself.”
For the next ten minutes, riot discussion mingled with questions about his ordeal and exoneration, the chitchat of daily life, and a shopping list of questions she had written on her note pad. “You don't seem bitter about the frame-up job they tried to pull on you,” she said.
“Well, the fact is, Ms. Best, this place is run by a bunch of ruthless people who lie and oppress and swindle the same way people who run your world do. I learned a long time ago not to take things too personally because when you do, that's when they really slam their foot on your neck. The trick is to keep your eyes open and stay one step ahead of them at all times.” Oliver grinned at her until she turned her head to the side and smiled again. He thought it was the sweetest gesture.
“I don't know what's wrong with the world,” she said. “You're so right. Many of the people I work with make good money and have great job security, but they still want more. And what they want is power. Thank goodness you kept good records.”
“That and the fact that I had a boss who was decent enough to keep looking for them.”
“I was hoping you would start off by giving me a clearer sense of what prison life is like, Oliver. None of the movies I've ever seen get beyond what I think are stereotypes. Like how prisoners deal with loneliness and family relationships, when loved ones die, how friendships are formed, and things like that. Then later you can tell me all about your educational experiences. Oh, and I've heard so much about your award-winning poem. You must read it to me later. Let's see, what else is there?” She looked down at her notes. “Also, if you would, tell me what words like rehabilitation and remorse mean to you.”
“Okay, I'll start with loneliness. Every prisoner deals with loneliness in his own way. It's been a long time since I've been lonely. I keep extremely busy. Going on thirteen years now I've had the most fantastic love affair with higher learning and it has turned my entire prison experience into a university. I have a few good friends in here who I wouldn't trade for anything in the world. This is the only life we have now, so we try to make the best of it. We've learned to appreciate little things like the steady rhythm of a rubber ball bouncing against the wall or a pair of dice clicking on the sidewalks, the smell of freshly mowed grass, a clear blue sky speckled with birds. And color. Every prisoner I know is crazy about color. Burgundy red blood on the sidewalk, pink chips in the sky, the Kelly-green sleeves of a secretary's blouse, any color you can think of strikes us with awe.” He paused and took out two tea bags from his shirt pocket. “A little birdie told me you like to drink herbal tea,” he said, grinning at her. “How many sugars you take?”
“Two, please.”
“I'll be right back.”
Two minutes later he returned with two steaming hot mugs of water. He set his down and moved the tea bag up and down in B.J. Dallet's blue ceramic mug. He handed it to her and said, “As I was saying, the thing about loneliness is that everyone has his own way of dealing with it. Some stay busy and active and that seems to work for them. Some go crazy and do themselves in. And some resort to homosexuality. Men kill over that stuff in here, and get killed too.” He paused for a few seconds and then lowered his voice when he went on. “And in case you didn't know it, there are real-life love affairs in this place, too, just like anywhere else. A secretary, a teacher, a nurse, a female guard, or any other willing woman, can ease the pain in a man's groin and at the same time ease the I'm-so-lonesome-I-could-die stuff in his head.” Oliver paused again to give her a chance to ask another question and when she didn't, his serious stare turned into a smile as he said, “Now as to your inquiries about rehabilitation and remorse, no offense now. Those are important sounding subjects, but addressing them in generalities won't tell you much about what you want to know. I take it you want to hear more than some old cliche about how every man is a road to himself, or how the most contrite heart can never undo one's gravest wrongs, don't you?”
“You got it,” she said, her jaw hanging. She was mesmerized.
“Okay. I don't want anyone to ever think if I died in here tomorrow my life was a waste or in any way absent of worth. I gotta tell you, Ms. Best, the love and support I've been blessed with over these years has been more profound than you can imagine. The care given to me by my family and professors and friends has been unflinching and unconditional, and that love and care has surrounded me so thoroughly that the dreams and experiences I've had, the journeys I've been on in pursuit of my goals, have made my life as fulfilling and abundant as yours or anyone else's. You may not be able to fathom this, Ms. Best, but, all things considered, I've led a pretty normal life these years I've been in here. It's ironic as hell that I ended up in prison and found my calling. I can't even begin to tell you how much I love the art of teaching. And-”
“Let me interrupt you right there, if I may, Oliver. What is it about teaching that you love so much? Would you explain that to me?”
Oliver smiled again and shook his head and said, “Yes, well, it has to do with the feeling you get inside when you present a new slice of knowledge to someone and you see the light come on when they get it. That's one thing. The other has to do with the professional challenge of presenting information that is completely foreign to someone in such a way that he or she gets it, you know? And that's what moves me the most, this challenge. Okay, I'm in prison, but being in prison does not prohibit me from learning these things, and living life to its fullest. I think it's nobody's loss but our own if we go through life failing to discover that life is inside ourselves, not just in the world that surrounds us. We can still discover all of its splendor, even in a place like this filthy, dilapidated prison.” He stopped, surprised by what he had said and how. Then, as if he knew her and her philosophy, he spoke intimately to her, his voice soft and animated. “You know, your name says it all. Hope Best. That's just what I do. I hope for the best every day of my life. It's strange. I feel I know a lot about you just from knowing your name. Like you couldn't possibly go t
hrough life with that name and see the glass any other way but half full all the time, could you?” He didn't give her a chance to answer. “And if you yourself, as lovely and dainty as you are, if you were a prisoner like me, you'd still be hoping for the best, wouldn't you?”
“I'd like to think so,” she said in wonder.
He paused to bask in the sunshine of her smile. “I know you would, and you know how I know? Because I can tell that you know that life is life everywhere, don't you? You get it, don't you?”
“I get it, Oliver Priddy.” She was singing her words again.
Once upon a time he had bragged to himself over and over about his good fortune. Couldn't wait each week to find her sitting in his classroom waiting for him to lead her into his office for their private dance. He was thirty-four now and his feet shivered for a two-step like never before. He wondered if this Hope Best was the kind of woman who was free enough to snatch a moment of privacy with him in the middle of a stupid, blind prison. Would she two-step with him? “You know what?” he said. “I'm going on sixteen years in this place, and I still sing and dance every chance I get. Do you dance?”
“All the time,” she said.
“Slow or fast?”
“Whatever the occasion calls for.”
“Would you like to dance with me?”
“Sure. Any time.”
“Come on. I've got music in my office. And after we dance you can sit cross-legged on top of my desk it you want.”
Eureka Man: A Novel Page 25
