Thinking Straight

by Robin Reardon

  I imagine myself agreeing to one demand, and then to another, and then balking at the next, and I know the man will hurt the kitten, torture the kitten. The man keeps talking about how pleasant he can make my life, and the kitten’s, or how miserable. I know the pleasant part is really a lie.

  I feel the kitten’s paw on my leg. It’s asking to be held.

  The man sets his paper down and looks at me, a smirk on his face. And then he looks down toward my lap, and so do I. The kitten is there. Dead. I’ve snapped its neck.

  Suddenly I’m sitting upright in a bed, breathing hard. It’s my bed. Or rather, not mine, but the one I’ve been assigned in this prison. And even though I know where I am, even though I know that was a dream, even though I’m in SafeZone, and even though I might wake Charles up, I ask, “Where’s my kitten?”

  Chapter 6

  But he who is greatest among you will be your servant. Whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted.

  —Matthew 23:11

  Charles says absolutely nothing in the morning until we’ve showered and dressed, I’ve put my yellow sticker on, and we’re preparing to head out for breakfast. Only I have to stop by Harnett’s office first to hear my sentencing. I’m just contemplating how I’m going to let Charles know that without writing when he says, “Listen, Taylor, would you be okay on your own at breakfast today?”

  His voice sounds odd. Strained, kind of. I wait for him to say more, to tell me why, but when he doesn’t I just nod.

  “Thanks. I just don’t feel like dealing with all those people this morning. Not after last night.” He starts to turn toward the door but stops. “Do you understand?”

  I do, I guess. I nod again.

  “If anyone insists on knowing where I am and they ask you, you can write that I went to the chapel.” He turns, then says over his shoulder, “Don’t forget your sticker.” And he’s gone.

  I reach up and slap my shoulder, expecting to feel nothing but cloth. But the sticker is there already. Weird. I pocket a pen and a sheet of paper, just in case I have to explain Charles’s whereabouts, and head out on my own errand.

  The door to Harnett’s office is open, so I just knock on the frame. She looks up.

  “Ah, Taylor. Come in. Sit down.”

  I sit, and watch her finish some writing she’s doing. She starts speaking again before she puts the pen down.

  “I’ve read the MI you left last night. We’ll still talk tomorrow at ten, as arranged, so I won’t go over it in detail right now. But I want you to know that although I understand you feel as though Nate pushed you into speaking, I know two important things that render that a little irrelevant. One is that Nate has voluntarily returned to us twice since his first summer here, so I understand him pretty well. And I do not believe that he would step over that line in the way you imagine. He is extremely well aware of the protocol here, and he makes every effort to stay within it. This does not mean he makes no mistakes, and I will speak to him about how he approached you to find out where his heart was. But that is not your problem.

  “The other thing is that you’ve been with us only a couple of days. And even if you’ve been exerting your best efforts to maintain the integrity of your SafeZone, it’s important for you to understand that sometimes our best efforts fall short. Yours fell short, and there are consequences. If there were not, your motivation—especially as a new resident—could falter.

  “So I’ve decided what your punishment should be. During your Contemplation time this afternoon, you will write an Apology to your brothers and sisters. It doesn’t need to be long, but it must be long enough to communicate these points: one, that you understand what you did wrong; two, that you blame no one but yourself; and three, that you apologize to all the other residents, especially the ones in SafeZone, who may have heard you break protocol yesterday.”

  She sits back, and I think she’s done. Certainly that’s bad enough. But then she adds, “And tonight, during Prayer Meeting, you will emerge from SafeZone by reading it aloud.”

  Stunned. I think stunned is the best word for how I feel.

  “Any questions?”

  Yeah; are you fucking kidding me with this?

  She must see that question on my face. “Taylor, this may seem harsh. But remember what I told you Monday about these rules? They are here to help you. A diligent sheepdog keeps his sheep from straying too near the cliff edge. Our job here is to teach you how to herd your own thoughts, your own actions, for the sake of your immortal soul.”

  So now they want my thoughts, too? And I’ve just finished telling myself that my thoughts are my own. That Harnett might find out what I write, but not what I think.

  Alone, I make my way to the dining hall for breakfast, kind of on autopilot. I don’t care whether I’m even going to know anyone else at whatever table I end up at. I’m Safe, so I don’t have to explain anything. My mind is racing, jumping, frantic to come up with something that will make it possible for me to keep the attitude I know Will would have and at the same time avoid outright insubordination. Like, how can I stand up in front of the whole prayer group, tell them everything the Saint just laid out, not lie, be true to myself and to Will, not get expelled, not have to go to military school, where I won’t see Will in class every day—hell, where I won’t see him for months!

  I can’t do it. God, it would take someone with the maneuvering skills of Machiavelli or Houdini to do it! If only my last name ended in an i.

  I find a table with no one, which suits me just fine. But before I can even salt my scrambled eggs, there’s someone across from me. It’s Sean.

  He looks at me and then down at his tray immediately, like he’s ashamed, or like he thinks I’m mad at him. And in my present mood it’s hard to appreciate how gorgeous he is, so I’m sure I’m scowling. What’s he doing here, anyway?

  He says grace and immediately puts more jam on his toast than I think I’ve consumed in the last year, and then he doesn’t even take a bite before he says, “Taylor, I’m real sorry about yesterday. Really. I was just going toward you guys to quiet things down. But I didn’t get there soon enough.”

  He drinks his juice almost in one gulp. Then, “If only so many people hadn’t heard you. Y’know? But everybody did. So I had no choice.” He takes a huge mouthful of jam. I mean toast. “I’m in a tough spot. It’s kind of like I’m one of you guys, but I’m not. D’you see?”

  What can I say? And I’m not sure I do see. I shrug.

  He looks down at his plate and I don’t see the whites of his eyes again until he’s nearly done eating. Which actually doesn’t take long.

  Then he says, “I have to get to the laundry room. Get things set up. But—look, you gotta understand my position. I can’t slide. I can’t give them any reason to think I’m not toeing the line.”

  He looks at me, and there’s this intensity in his eyes that pulls at me across the table. It makes me want to hold him, to tell him it’s okay. Which is weird, ’cause I’m the one who’s in SafeZone. I’m the one who’s got to make the Public Apology about something I don’t even think was wrong. But he looks—I don’t know, fragile. And again I get that sense that even though he’s probably a sweetheart, I wouldn’t want to depend on him if my back were up against it.

  I sort of nod and shrug at the same time, hoping he’ll get that I understand and he can now stop pleading, or whatever he’s doing. And he finally throws the last bits of his breakfast into his mouth, washes it down with the dregs of his coffee, and gets up. He holds the tray in one broad, powerful hand, and with the other he squeezes my shoulder.

  “You’re a stand-up guy, Taylor.” And he leaves.

  A stand-up guy? I wonder how many other impressions I could leave people with by not speaking, by allowing them to draw whatever conclusions they want to about me with nothing more to go on than what they want to see in me.

  When I show up at the laundry room, Sean puts me to work on towels again. That’s
good; I don’t have the focus to learn anything new, and if I had to work with someone else—like Sheldon yesterday—well, let’s just say it’s better not to. When break time comes I sit on a bench as far away from everyone else as possible, under the green overhang, which is a little noisy today with drizzle falling onto it. Then back to towels.

  No sign of Charles at lunchtime. That’s weird. I go to an empty table in a corner and get out my pen and that piece of paper, the one I’d stashed in case anyone asked where Charles was instead of at breakfast. Between bites of ham sandwich, I write down everything the Saint told me to include: I did wrong; I blame only me; I pray I didn’t tempt others. I’m just starting to write ideas about what’s wrong with what I did when I’m interrupted.

  “Hello, Taylor.”

  I look up. Shit; it’s Marie and Jessica. I wave hello, goodbye, whatever, and bend back over my paper again. Maybe they’ll go away.

  They don’t. They sit. Marie on my right, Jessica across from me.

  “Where’s Charles?” Marie wants to know. Like I can tell her anything.

  Shrug, shake my head. Back to the paper.

  “We didn’t see him at breakfast either. Very mysterious. I do hope he’s all right.”

  I want to glare at her, but even more, I want to ignore her. I ignore her.

  But she doesn’t give up. “What’s that you’re writing?”

  Just in time I catch a flash of motion as she reaches out to take it, and I snatch it away. I scowl at her, fold it up, and struggle to get it and the pen back into my pocket.

  “Taylor, brother, you seem to need some coaching. We have rules here, as you know very well, about consideration for each other. Especially around how boys should treat girls. And even more, about secrecy.”

  Head down, I’m still tucking things away, wondering how I can get away from her before I do something she really won’t like, when a now-familiar voice speaks.

  “And, sister, perhaps you could use some coaching as well. Especially around how residents treat brothers who are in SafeZone.”

  It’s Shorty. Nate. And he sits in the empty chair next to me. Guess he’s not ignoring me today. Or really, what he’s doing is rescuing me from Marie. I could be anybody—Charles, Leland, it doesn’t matter—but I’m grateful nonetheless.

  Marie’s face turns sour, but what can she say? He’s right. Again. She says something anyway. “There are no secrets here. There are not supposed to be any secrets here. If Taylor is hiding something, it needs to see the light.”

  Nate turns to me. “Taylor, are you hiding something?”

  As it happens, what I’m working on will be public soon enough, and that’s not secrecy. So I shake my head.

  “There; you see?”

  “He is! He snatched it away when I asked to see it. That’s hiding.”

  Quietly, Nate says, “Taylor, as you know, residents in SafeZone are supposed to write comments to other residents only when there is a pressing need. Now, here’s where I see things at the moment. You were writing something that Marie tried and failed to see, so you weren’t writing to her. So that rule wasn’t broken. However, she’s now accusing you of being secretive. That is serious and could constitute a pressing need. So I offer you two alternatives. If you would like to offer an explanation, tear off part of your paper and write what it is. If you don’t feel an explanation is necessary, just shake your head, and I’ll support you. Which is it?”

  On the one hand, I don’t want to give Marie the satisfaction of an explanation. But on the other, if Nate is going to stand up for me, he has a right to know why. I pull out my paper, and on one corner I write, “I’m preparing something I’ll read aloud tonight.” I tear that off and give it to Nate.

  And he laughs. Then he pockets my scrap of paper, looks right at Marie, and says, “I will bear witness that what brother Taylor is doing is not secret, and that in truth he’s not hiding anything. Sister Marie, if you still feel there has been a serious transgression, then we should all petition Mrs. Harnett and request her advice.”

  “I want to see what he gave you.”

  “There’s no need. I’ve borne witness, and I’ll maintain it. If you persist, and we go to Mrs. Harnett, part of what she learns will be the nature of your conversation before I was fortunate enough to join you here.”

  Wow. Now, this is useful. I take a close look at Nate, closer than ever before, and I realize he’s probably at least a year older than me. I hadn’t thought that because he’s short and his voice is a little high, but he must be older. And Harnett had said this was his third summer here.

  I refold my paper and stow it away again.

  “Now,” Nate goes on, “perhaps we’d benefit more by talking together about last night’s meeting. It was very moving, sister Marie, when you approached Leland toward the end. What was in your heart?”

  Marie blinks a couple of times, clears her throat, and finally says, “There was so much in my heart, I’m not sure I could tell you the half of it.”

  “Understandable. So just share one thing.”

  This guy is so good! Understandable, indeed; it sure is, but not in the way she wants us to understand.

  “Well, I felt love.”

  “Love?”

  “Of course. For Leland. We’re commanded to love each other, after all.”

  “Yes, and I’m sure you do. And you made it so obvious, going over to him like that. I wonder if you felt, too, any remorse.”

  “Remorse? For what?”

  “Terrible things happened after you reported Leland kissing Ray.”

  WTF?

  Her back goes very straight. “Why should I feel remorse?”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not? Well—why not? Because they shouldn’t have been doing that! They were endangering each others’ souls. I had no choice!”

  “Oh, sister, I’m sorry. I wasn’t clear. I didn’t mean remorse for watching those two brothers for days until they finally exposed their true intentions to you. Though, of course, they didn’t know you were following them. No, I meant remorse in a more general way, for the pain Leland must be feeling. Perhaps sympathy would have been a better word. Were you feeling that?”

  I’m not sure whether it would have been more fun to watch Nate’s face or Marie’s. I’m glad I opted for Marie’s, because over the course of Nate’s last reply her expression changed about five times, from indignation to self-righteousness to anger to fear to something like faked dignity. And maybe a few more in there that I can’t quite name.

  “Don’t be absurd, brother. Of course I felt sympathetic for his pain. But you can’t say he shouldn’t be feeling it. After all, if he hadn’t tempted Ray, Ray would be alive today.”

  “Now, that’s an interesting connection you’re drawing there. In essence, you’re saying that something one person does or does not do can have a direct influence over another person committing a sin, breaking a rule—that sort of thing. Yes?”

  “Well, couldn’t it?”

  “I suppose it could. Just like the way you were addressing Taylor a few minutes ago could have influenced him to break SafeZone. I know exactly what you’re talking about. Begetting one sin with another. And I would have felt sympathy for Taylor in that case.”

  He bites a huge hunk out of his sandwich and watches her as he chews. He’s describing something not very unlike what he’d done to me yesterday. Though I doubt he’d meant to tempt me, as Marie certainly had. Is he aware? If so, he gives me no indication. He just keeps looking at Marie, who finally seems at a loss for words.

  Eventually she sputters something like, “I do hope you’re not accusing me of deliberately tempting Taylor to break SafeZone.”

  Nate swallows, smiles broadly, and says, “I hope not, too.” And he takes another bite.

  I haven’t been paying any attention to Jessica through all of this, but now that Nate is done dissecting Marie’s motives—or, at least, it appears she’s going to do her best to avoid giving him any m
ore opportunities—it occurs to me that Jessica’s been entirely silent. And she’s barely moved, looking mostly down at her plate. Why hasn’t she been more interested in what was happening to her friend? Maybe because she couldn’t help her? God knows I wouldn’t want to take Nate on as a verbal adversary. But—not even to react? She must sense me looking at her, ’cause she raises her eyes, sees mine, and lowers hers again very quickly.

  I’m not getting any writing done, or even any thinking about what I’m going to write, but I think this is the most fun I’ve had since I got here. And I owe it to the guy whose fault it is that I have to stand up tonight and read a Public Apology.

  Wild. This place is wild. And Nate came back voluntarily? Twice?

  I hide in a corner again at afternoon break, trying to think. It isn’t drizzling as much as this morning, but the grass is damp, and I’ve come down from that little high Nate had given me at lunch. I still have to do this thing tonight, and I still don’t know how I’m going to carry it off.

  Break is almost over when I notice Nate. I haven’t been paying much attention to who was out on the grass, but he must have been working his way around the edge of the courtyard very slowly or I think I would have noticed him before he got to the fence. He’s moving in a casual kind of way, plucking at something in one hand—grass blades, maybe—with his fingers. When he gets to the place where the chain-link fence meets the concrete wall of the building, he stands there staring out for a minute, for all I can tell at nothing in particular. But then he drops the grass bits, puts his hand on the fence, fingers curled around the wires, and then—how could this be?—there’s something in his hand. There must be somebody around the wall, someone I can’t see from where I’m sitting.

  Well, well. I don’t have a clue how I might use this, and I know the chances are good that if I try to use it against Nate, he’ll still manage to best me somehow. But I file it away for the future, in case of need. He may have come to my rescue at lunch, and maybe I’ll stop referring to him in my mind as Shorty, but he’s hardly on the short list for Ty’s Best Friend in this place. And John McAndrews doesn’t seem to like him very much, for whatever that’s worth.