True Notebooks

by Mark Salzman

  “Do they give a riding show?”

  “Better than that. The kids give the riding show. Watch.”

  The head cowboy asked for three volunteers, who were given permission to stand up and approach the horses. The visitors helped the boys up into the saddles, then led the horses by the reins around the yard. It was obvious from the boys’ nervous laughter and the expressions of wonder on their faces that none of them had experienced anything like it before.

  “If you still want to run your class, Mark, I could send your kids inside,” Mr. Granillo offered. I declined; the boys had writing class twice a week, but this happened only once a year. I leaned against the tree and watched them enjoy themselves.

  It was a beautiful day outdoors, not quite eighty degrees and without a cloud in the sky. The sight of animals other than feral cats in the yard made the place look less depressing. One by one, the boys from my class got up and took their turn on the horses: Duc, Dale, Toa, and Benny. Kevin wasn’t anywhere to be seen, but when I smelled a barbecue and saw smoke rising from the far side of K/L unit, I guessed he was helping Mr. Sills prepare lunch.

  Victor was in the last group of three to ride. When his turn came, he approached the head cowboy and asked a question I couldn’t hear. They spoke for about a minute, then the cowboy waved over one of the guards. After another minute or so of discussion, the cowboy nodded and, instead of helping Victor up, simply handed him the reins. Victor put a foot in the stirrup and swung his other leg over with ease. He kept still on top of the horse for a moment and spoke to it in Spanish, then, with a barely visible movement of his hands and feet, got the horse to break into a trot. He rode the horse around the circumference of the yard, patting its neck and speaking to it the whole time. The cowboy, meanwhile, came over to join Granillo and me in the shade of the tree.

  Victor put the horse through a series of turns at the far end of the yard, got it to stop and walk backwards, then turned it around and commanded it to run. Throughout all of this I felt as if I was watching a miracle: Victor, with his blocky physique, his acne, and his awkward body language, was transformed. In the saddle he looked expert, graceful, and handsome. The whole group of boys cheered and laughed as Victor galloped past; I’m sure all of them were hoping he would jump the wall and ride off into jailhouse legend.

  “That kid knows what he’s doing,” the cowboy said.

  “He grew up on a ranch in Mexico,” Mr. Granillo said proudly.

  “Ah. They know their horses down there.”

  Horse and rider streaked past the guardhouse, drawing another cheer from the inmates. Then they circled the baseball diamond, slowed to a trot, and approached the tree where I was standing.

  “Nice horse,” Victor said to the cowboy.

  “Nice riding,” the cowboy responded. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Martinez.” Victor got down from the horse and handed the reins back.

  “Ever thought about doing this when you get out? Taking care of horses, teaching people to ride?”

  “Not really.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “Thanks. I’ll think about it.” Victor caressed the horse’s nose and thanked the cowboy for bringing him. When he rejoined his fellow inmates out in the sun, they teased him for not making a run for it.

  “Seems like a sweet kid,” the cowboy said.

  “He can be,” Mr. Granillo said.

  I decided to go around to the far side of K/L unit to visit with Kevin. I had brought along a card for him, like the one I’d given Francisco, with a message encouraging him to keep writing and my mailing address written inside. Mr. Sills seemed too preoccupied to greet me as I approached his homemade grill. A Hispanic boy I didn’t recognize stood nearby folding napkins.

  “Where’s Jackson?” I asked. “I’ve got something for him.”

  Mr. Sills turned a piece of the chicken over to check it; it wasn’t even singed yet. “Gone. They sent him to county yesterday.”

  “But he hasn’t been sentenced yet . . .”

  Sills turned over another piece of chicken, still without looking up at me. “I’m aware of that. This barbecue was supposed to be for him.”

  “Why did they send him early? He didn’t get in trouble, did he?”

  “No, he didn’t. He was never any trouble to anybody around here. He made people feel good.” Sills kept fussing with the chicken until I backed away from the grill. Then he waved the new messenger over. “Now look here—see how I line these up? You get twice as much on at a time this way.”

  The boy, who looked around fifteen years old, nodded.

  “But don’t put ’em so close they touch. They need breathin’ room.” Mr. Sills checked his watch. “It’s time. Go inside and see if Jenkins needs help bringing the last of the stuff out.”

  As soon as the boy started indoors, Mr. Sills barked at him to stop. “What the hell’s the matter with you? You haven’t even asked this man if he wants something to drink.”

  Blushing, the boy asked me if I wanted a soda.

  “Sure.”

  “What kind, sir?”

  “Anything.”

  The boy reached into a tub of ice and pulled out a can of root beer. He opened it, handed it to me, then looked at Sills.

  “That’s right. Now you can go help Jenkins.”

  I drank my soda and rearranged the papers in my bag. If Sills didn’t want to talk about Kevin, I wasn’t going to force the issue.

  “I know somebody who wants to be in the class,” Victor told me. “Could I go get him? Since we lost Jackson an’ all.”

  “Is he a clown?” I asked. Victor’s last candidate for admission had been Jose, so I didn’t care if I sounded judgmental.

  “Naw, he’s serious.”

  “Who you talkin’ ’bout?” Toa asked. “Not that fool Ramirez?”

  “Naw. Frontuto.”

  Toa nodded. “Yeah. He’s cool. So what’s the topic for today, Mark? Everybody feelin’ kinda low ’bout what happened to Jackson.”

  “Haters onthestaff,” Dale muttered. “Hateagoodman’causetheyignorance view.”

  “Why would the staff hate Kevin?” I asked.

  “They don’t,” Benny told me, lowering his voice to a whisper. “We’re pretty sure it’s Sills they got a problem with.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “They think Sills is too friendly to us. He breaks the rules sometimes—like having barbecues and stuff, we’re not supposed to get anything like that.”

  “But what does that have to do with Kevin?”

  “Jackson was Sills’ favorite. Nobody can fire Sills, so they hurt him by hurting his messenger.”

  “We gon’write’boutit?” Dale asked.

  “No way,” Toa said. “Jus’ cause more trouble for Sills.”

  “We could write letter and burn it,” Duc suggested.

  “Huh?”

  “Bible study, remember? What he say ’bout write a letter to your homeboy, then burn it.”

  “That was if you had something to say to a homeboy who died,” Benny explained. “We all wrote letters, then burned them together so the messages would go up to heaven.”

  “I’d have to flush mine down the toilet,” Toa said. “That’s where all my friends are.”

  “This is Frontuto,” Victor said, returning to the library with the new boy. “He even brought a poem to show he can write.” Victor nudged him. “Go on, fool, don’t just stand there. Give it to him.”

  Frontuto unfolded a piece of paper, shiny from being handled so much, and gave it to me. He had a boyish face but a haunted, distant look—he bore an uncanny resemblance to Montgomery Clift’s character in A Place in the Sun, after the poor man has been condemned to die. I looked over the poem, then suggested he read it aloud to get the class started. He seemed reluctant, but Toa said, “Read it. That’s how you get jumped in.”

  Dad, why weren’t you there?

  It’s not that you didn’t care,

  But ju
st that you weren’t there.

  Growing up as a boy

  Who was filled with so much joy

  I had a mother,

  Who had it very rough.

  Because she had two boys

  And a girl who tried to act so tough.

  Not having a manly role model,

  But having an older brother

  Who can only do so much.

  So by not having a fatherly figure,

  I turned to the streets

  And learned how to pull a trigger.

  And as I grew older,

  My days and nights got colder.

  So here I am, sixteen,

  And still have not found the right dream.

  The dream where I grow old

  And have days and nights that don’t feel so cold.

  And having kids that I can call my own,

  But not having to tell them “I love you” over a phone.

  As Frontuto read, Dale became agitated. He grimaced, massaged his neck, and squirmed in his chair. When the poem was finished, he looked relieved.

  “I told you he was serious,” Victor said.

  “What’s your first name?” I asked the new boy.

  “Sal.”

  “You know how the class works, Sal?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. A lot of guys have written about their mothers in this class, but not about fathers. Should we make that the topic today?”

  “Hm!”

  “Dale, are you OK?”

  He rubbed his neck again and waved me off. “Nothin’overhere.”

  “What about me?” Sal asked. “I already wrote on that topic.”

  “How about a childhood memory? Something you’ll never forget. It doesn’t have to be anything big, just something that you remember clearly and can describe for us.”

  “Yeah, I got something.”

  “Good. Let’s go for thirty minutes this time, then read aloud.”

  The boys settled down to work, but after five minutes I noticed that Dale was squirming and grimacing again. He looked as if he might be suffering from a migraine, so I pulled my chair over and asked once more if he was all right. He stared down at his notepad, which was blank, and said, “Feelin’bad, Mark.”

  “Do you want to see a doctor?”

  “Not thatkindabad. Bad here.” He pointed to his heart.

  “What do you feel bad about?”

  “Feelin’ lotta anger. Angrymyfather.”

  “Was he bad to you?”

  Dale nodded. “Never cometoseeme. Neveronce sinceIBEENLOCKEDUP.”

  “Then you have a right to be angry, Dale.”

  He grimaced again but didn’t say anything.

  “Can you write about feeling angry?”

  He shook his head. “Don’ wanna readitaloud.”

  “You don’t have to read it aloud. You could do what Duc was suggesting. Write a letter to your father telling him how disappointed you are in him. When you’re finished, you can tear it up. Nobody has to see it. It might make you feel better.”

  “I’lltryit, Mark.”

  After another five minutes Dale was squirming again. He had written a few sentences on his notepad but had crossed them all out. When I sat down next to him this time, he looked up at me and said, “Feelin’bad again, Mark.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Writin’ notnicethings. But hestillmyfather.”

  “Would you rather write about something else?”

  He nodded.

  “That’s fine. How about this: How did it feel to ride that horse the other day?”

  “Felt like heaven.”

  “Good. Write it down.”

  At the end of the writing period I called on Dale first, hoping it would make him feel better to share a happy memory with the others.

  Thanks to the rangers for bringing horses which have never been seen before and spending time with these brokenheart juveniles. Looking at the faces of my peers I saw that they forgot for a moment that they were locked up behind no mercy walls. Everybody had a chance to ride and Martinez had a chance to ride away. We saw a vision to freedom and a cherish mirage.

  A few years from now I wonder where would my destination be, dead, roaming free, or in some one penitentiary. Deep down inside there’s only a few people in particular that knows and understands the life I would like to achieve as a youngsta. I’m unfigurable and to opponents unfuck-withable but there is time I cry and ask myself, Is there someone who can feel the pain and agony I fail to show but feel. As I leave I’ll look back upon this place and chuckle and say

  —It was all good and great—

  “You got me confused,” Toa said. “Is it all good and great, or no mercy walls? Can’t have it both ways.”

  “Can if yo’mind splitintwo.”

  “Fuck it, Jones, next time write about your pops. Get that shit outta your system, you’ll feel better.”

  Dale rubbed his neck and mumbled.

  Duc read next. He hadn’t written about his father either; his essay was about the importance of sunlight for life on earth. Benny had written a draft of a letter to the judge on his case that he asked me to look at privately, and Victor wrote about a pair of beloved snakeskin boots.

  “None of you fools did the assignment,” Toa complained. “Ain’t nobody in here got a dad?”

  “Maybe we don’t got much to say on that subject,” Victor said.

  “Oh yeah you do. Everybody got somethin’ to say on that subject. Thing is, when you hatin’ on your dad, you jus’ hatin’ on yourself. ’Cause in your heart, you believe it all your fault, even if it ain’t.”

  “How could it be my fault if I’m jus’ a little kid? Fuck it, the dad suppos’ta be in charge, he the adult.”

  “I’m talkin’ ’bout if he beat you, in your heart you was thinkin’ it ’cause you fucked up. If he took off and left, you was thinkin’ it ’cause you fucked up. Don’ tell me you didn’t think it.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “That’s right, bullshit. That’s why I’m sayin’: if you can’t write about it, you still believin’ it.”

  “We haven’t heard yours yet,” Benny pointed out.

  “I don’t feel like readin’ it,” Toa said, leaning back in his chair.

  “So what are you bitchin’ at us for? You ain’t even readin’.”

  “I want Jones to read it for me.” Toa tossed the piece of paper across the table to Dale, who picked it up and read it silently. When he finished, he covered his mouth with his hand and laughed.

  “OK, I’llreadit. Fuckit.”

  I seen him for the first time in about seven years. “Hi Daddy. I hate you.” Daddy? Pops? More like ghost. My heart raced to find words to say. For years I contemplated this moment. Now here it is. Nothin’ but dead silence. He looked into my eyes, I figured he was tryin’a see if I felt anything. “Son, I missed you.” My heart froze, like it was stabbed with a ice pick and stuck into a freezer, havin’ water poured over it repeatedly, seepin’ into the puncture wounds, chemically changing from fluids to solids, cold . . . tha coldest.

  Dale tossed the sheet back across the table, still smiling. “Saysitall. Don’gotta saynomore.”

  “But you only read that side. Turn it over.”

  Dale turned the page over and glanced at what was written there.

  “Nah, nah. Youreadit,” he said, tossing the paper back to Toa.

  Toa smoothed the page out with his fist.

  My mom is the foundation to my family. Without her there ain’t no me. When my dad was locked up she was there for us. My mom don’t know but that’s why I left home so often. ’Cause she had so much on her mind. I felt leaving would lighten the load.

  My mom’s kind, sensitive, loving, and if you take all that as a sign of weakness fuck you ’cause I ain’t nothin’ like that and she’s my heart so killing you secures somebody I love and that’s how much I love her, that I’ll kill without remorse. Even though she don’t like what I do,
my mom’s my world. I love her.

  “Saysitall,” Dale repeated.

  “So whad’you write on, Frontuto? You started this shit, after all.”

  “I already read one today, I don’t wanna bore nobody.”

  “We’ll tell you if it’s boring. Read it or the staff’ll send us down.”

  “Yeah. Go, Frontuto.”

  I remember one time when I was living with my dad and we went fishing to the High Sierras. It was a long trip, and on the way over there my dad was so drunk that he fell asleep under the table while we were driving there. So when we got there you could see the mountains and it was a beautiful sight. The mountains were covered with snow, and the air was just so fresh that it felt different to my lungs. I guess my lungs were used to all this bad air out here, so on the way up there we stopped at a store and of course they bought more beer and I made them buy me some beef jerky and a soda and then we got back into the motor home and drove to a lake where we started fishing. So my dad hooked my pole up and I went to cast it out there and it snapped apart. So they made me sit there and watch them fish and it was getting very cold. I got very bored, so I started to throw rocks into the lake, and they all started to yell, “Hey Bill, get Sal’s ass and put him in the motor home cause he’s scaring all the fish away.” So they put me in the motor home and I fell asleep. When I woke up they were drinking again. So we stayed there for a couple of days and then went back home and the funny part is they didn’t even catch any fish.

  By the end of the story Dale was laughing in snorts, with one hand clapped over his mouth and the other clenched into a fist, pounding his thigh.

  “I didn’t know it was that funny,” Sal said.

  “Clock say we got five minutes left. What we gonna do till then? Can’t just sit here starin’ at Jones.”

  “I dunno.”

  Benny and Duc shrugged.

  “I already read twice,” Sal said, “don’t look at me.”

  Toa shook his head. “Too many Indians, not enough chiefs. Mark—what we gonna do?”

  I suggested that we each talk about a character from a movie that we really admired or could identify with.

  “I know who I’m thinkin’ of,” Toa said. “Who that little green muthafucka? All hunched over an’ shit?”