“See we got a baby this time,” the faceless man said.
“Yeah, pretty young,” Alex’s escort said, handing over a sheet of paper. “Not too young to pull a trigger … or fight. He’s already had a tiff with a couple of Mexicans in Receiving—they’ll be down pretty soon. Better put ’em in a different dorm.”
The man behind the desk grunted; he was looking at the paper. “Attempted murder,” he said, then “humphed” disparagingly. “Shit, they’re never too young anymore.” He made a sucking sound with his teeth while he opened a battered loose-leaf binder and inserted the paper in proper alphabetical order with fifty other identical papers. Each sheet was a log for an individual boy. The man opened the drawer and shoved a small brown-paper sack across the desk. It was stapled at the top. “Take it,” he said to Alex. “It’s a comb, toothbrush, and—but you won’t need the razor blades.”
“You got him?” the escort said. “It’s my lunch hour.”
“You can go. I’ll have him tucked in bed in a minute.”
The gate clanged shut behind the escort, and the sound of his footsteps grew fainter as Alex waited. The man behind the desk swiveled his chair around and looked at a huge board that covered the wall. It had slots for tags, grouped according to dorms, and most of the slots were filled. The man wrote Alex’s name on a tag and inserted it in an empty slot.
“Come on, Hammond,” the man said, unwinding his legs from under the desk and startling the eleven-year-old with his six-foot-six height. He took a flashlight from a drawer and led Alex down a hallway. The dormitory door was a frame of heavy wire mesh. The man used the flashlight to judge the keyhole. “Third bed on the left,” he said, locking the door behind Alex without waiting to see if the boy could find it.
Along each wall were ten beds, the blanket-covered mounds illuminated by a floodlight outside the windows. The glare was sliced into elongated rectangles by the bars on the windows.
Alex was surprised at the hospital bed, expecting a cot. He undressed quickly. A hospital stand was between each bed, but he didn’t know which one went with his bed, so he dropped the ill-fitting clothes on the floor and got quickly under the sheets. He felt conspicuous and didn’t want anyone to wake up and question him. The cool, clean sheets felt surprisingly good, making him remember the preceding night, spent shivering and wet in the house beside the railroad tracks. From that recollection jumped the image of the man looming over him and the fang of fire leaping from his own hand. Then suddenly, always there in the background, was the stabbing memory that his father was dead. He had no visual recollection or impression, but the thought suffused him in total anguish. All he had—the one person—now gone forever. Crying out to God was useless. Death was as mysterious to Alex as to everyone, and because of his age less frightening, but he was old enough to know that his father was going under the earth forever. And Alex felt responsible, not merely for shooting the man in the market but also, even worse, for having in times of fury wished Clem dead. Then it had been just a word, “dead,” but now he was damned by the reality. He trembled with stifled sobs, wanting to purge the hurt in long, loud, and exhausting tears. Instead he bit his lips while streaks of tears ran down his cheeks. He couldn’t let go; he’d wake up the others and they would see his torment. Children were cruel to a child who cried, and these kids would be more callous than most. He stared at the lighted windows, at the bars, and he quaked in silence. He was rigid, holding back, but eventually the accumulated exhaustion of nearly two sleepless nights overcame everything else, and he fell into a troubled sleep, emitting moans that disturbed nobody.
6
The lights went on while it was still dark outside. The hard glare seared through Alex’s eyelids and brought him awake with a start, while against his ears pounded the clatter of metal banging metal. A man in the doorway was whacking a large key on the doorframe, yelling, “Reveille … reveille! Up an’ at ’em!”
Boys were rising, some with alacrity, others indolently. Alex raised himself up on his elbows and looked around, his eyes gritty, feeling out of place but not afraid. More than half the boys were black or Chicano; the youngest were around his age (only a couple of them) while the others ranged up to fourteen or fifteen. Talk was minimal. Everyone ignored everyone else. There was no chatter and no horseplay, unlike other places he’d been.
“Best hurry,” a voice said, and Alex turned to look into the pale-yellow, freckled face of a black boy. The face had a wizened look, and kinky hair exploded from it like hundreds of tiny watch springs. The pale black boy began tugging his own bed together quite inexpertly. It was something he had obviously had no experience with.
Alex got up from the bed, put on his clothes, and joined the hurrying. He straightened the bed, making neat square corners as he’d been taught in military school. Some of the others knew how, but many fumbled and tugged, and some tried to slap the rippled blankets down without tightening the sheets beneath. The freckled black boy was exasperatedly saying, “Sh … sh … shit,” in jerky phrases, nodding his head in quick emphasis. He backed into Alex between the bunks and turned with his lips pursed pugnaciously. Then he saw Alex’s neat bed.
“Man, you done been here before?” he asked.
Alex shook his head.
“How the fuck you make that bed so cool?”
“I’ll help you.” Alex did so, first pulling the sheets tight so the wrinkles disappeared, while the black boy cocked his head and blinked his eyes, looking angry that Alex could do something he found so frustrating.
The key banged again on the door, triggering the boys to a final burst of activity. Then they all took positions beside the foots of the beds and folded their arms. Alex followed their example.
The man in the doorway—short and gimp-legged, wearing a cheap, shapeless sweater—now stalked down the aisle. Where the beds failed to meet his standards, he grabbed the blanket and tore the bedding to the floor. Nothing was said until he reached the freckled black boy’s bed. Then the man smiled mirthlessly, showing yellow-stained teeth. “Seemed to have learned, eh, Chester? Guess you wanna start eating breakfast.”
“Yassah,” the boy said, grinning.
“What’s funny, Chester?”
The boy’s face went blank in an instant. “Nothing, Mr. Barnes.”
Mr. Barnes grunted, stalked back to the door, and whacked it with his key. The boys whose beds had passed inspection formed a line in front of him. The others had to stay behind.
In columns of two the boys going to breakfast marched down the long corridor of the night before, the leading pair stopping at pre-arranged places so the column and the gimpy man didn’t straggle. The twenty boys from Alex’s dorm were joined by those of two others, making a group of about sixty. Alex saw the two Mexicans he’d fought with, but they ignored him. Absolute silence was required, and the boys also had to walk with their arms folded across their chests, to stop grabassing. Three older boys swaggered beside the column, each with a blue kerchief folded into a rectangle and pinned at the shouldertop as a badge of authority. They were “monitors,” and each was of a different race. A thin Mexican with kinky hair started whispering to another boy and was seen by a black monitor, who trotted forward and kicked him in the butt, using the flat side of his foot against the soft flesh. It arced the victim upward, humiliating more than hurting. Alex’s cheeks turned red in sympathy. Mr. Barnes saw the kick and said nothing. The company was at a stop when it happened, and he simply waved them forward.
Silence prevailed in the mess hall, too. Ten boys sat at each table, with a monitor at the head. The monitor filled the bowls with oatmeal and did the same with the milk. He used the sugar shaker first and watched to make sure nobody took more than his share.
While the meal was being eaten, Alex’s eyes roamed furtively over the faces, all of which were engrossed in getting down the plain but wholesome fare: oatmeal, bread, prunes, and milk. Except for the numerous olive and brown skins, the faces were no different from those at military
schools and other places he’d been. He’d expected them to be … different. He couldn’t remember details, but he recalled the stories about Juvenile Hall, all frightening. He expected tough kids and faces that showed it. He felt less out of place than he’d expected. Nobody was paying him any attention—that was part of it—but it was also that the other places had, in their regimented atmospheres, somewhat prepared him for this. He did notice that most whites and Chicanos had ducktail hairdos that shone with grease, and he saw a few boys sneak the white margarine into pieces of paper and slip the packages into shirt pockets.
When they went back through the corridor it was to a large room with straight-backed wooden benches and a waxed floor. The benches were covered with names gouged in the soft pine, so that ensuing layers of lacquer didn’t erase them. He was to learn that the Los Angeles gangs took their names either from neighborhood streets or from some landmark in the neighborhood: Chapo de Temple (street), Alfie de Forence (street), Topo de Dogtown (dog pound), Sonny de Hazard (park). “De” meant “of.”
The boys sat in arms-folded silence, except for the monitors. They sprawled in a corner at the front of the room and played Monopoly, though even they didn’t get loud. Mr. Barnes sat in a chair tilted back against the wall beside the door, a clipboard cradled in his hand. He nodded affirmatively when a boy asked to go to the bathroom. They had to ask by holding up a hand, extending one finger as a request to urinate, two to defecate, and three to get a drink of water. It was done one at a time, so that when one boy returned, half a dozen arms shot up.
One boy that Alex thought was Mexican, except for his slanted eyes, was passing the time by forming bubbles on the tip of his tongue and blowing them into the air. None lasted more than a few seconds, but it fascinated Alex, and he worked his mouth in futile imitation, unable to form a bubble much less blow it into the air.
Half an hour later the company trudged outdoors. Juvenile Hall was larger than Alex had thought, larger than any military school he’d been in. Buildings blocked his view for half a mile, mostly two-story brick, though others were simply concrete covered with paint. Other columns of boys were emerging from the buildings, and these seemed to be grouped according to age. The youngest group was seven or eight years old and wore bib overalls, whereas the oldest was sixteen or seventeen and wore khakis. The company marched along a road underneath a fifteen-foot wall topped with barbed wire. Alex looked up, and the weight of imprisonment pressed on his young mind.
Across a hundred and fifty yards of lawn, surrounded by pepper trees, was a building that stood all alone. A group of girls in denim dresses emerged, surprising Alex. What could girls do to break the law?
The companies met in a paved square outside the school building and went through the ritual of raising the flag and pledging allegiance. Only the dozen teachers clustered near the doorway seemed sincere. Most of the boys watched silently.
When the ritual was over the companies splintered to organize in small clusters around each teacher. Five new arrivals remained, Alex and the two Mexicans he’d fought among them. A skinny old man in a shabby black suit and wire pince nez, wearing a hearing aid, came over. He knew one of the Mexicans.
“Back again, Cisneros? What’s it this time? You’re getting a little old for bicycles.”
The Chicano, a boy of thirteen with Indian cheekbones and raven hair that jutted out like porcupine quills—except for the ducktail—smiled affably, showing good, even teeth. “No, joyriding a car this time.”
“Glad to see you’re moving up. Don’t worry. You’ll make the big time yet. Just like your brother. You said he’s in San Quentin?”
“He got out last week. He sent you his regards.”
“How’d he know … I mean, you just came in last night.”
“He came down to the precinct yesterday.”
“Oh … well, go on to Mrs. Glantz’s class. You haven’t gotten any smarter in three months, have you?”
Cisneros, still smiling, shook his head.
“You probably didn’t even get near a school,” the man added, an ironic twang in his voice. The man didn’t know the second Mexican, who had pale skin and green eyes. “Bet they call you huero,” he said.
The boy nodded but didn’t smile. He wasn’t comfortable.
“What grade are you in?”
“B seven.”
“Spell ‘personal.’”
The boy’s face, already expressionless, went completely blank.
“Go to Mr. Beck’s class.” He pointed to a group of twelve-year-olds seated around a squat figure in a tweed jacket with elbow patches, a stubby pipe clenched in his teeth, a man sartorially the apotheosis of the country pedagogue.
When Alex claimed to be in the seventh grade, the black-suited man’s rheumy eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Spell ‘observation,’” the man said.
Alex did so. Since he was eight he’d been a constant winner in spelling bees.
“What parts of grammar are required for a complete sentence?”
“A subject and a predicate.”
“I’ll bet you can even read,” the man said, again with an ironic tone. When Alex didn’t reply, the man gestured toward where Cisneros was checking in with a schoolteacher. “You can go to Mrs. Glantz’s, too.”
A score of boys were loosely gathered in front of the fortyish woman, who reeked of scent and wore layers of makeup that nearly, if not completely, subdued acne craters. Her clothes were fluffs and flounces. She formed them into the inevitable double column, counted heads, and led them into the building and up the stairs.
Alex was now directly in front of Cisneros; he was very conscious of the bigger boy’s proximity, almost as if they were touching.
The column stopped as Mrs. Glantz looked for her key.
“Hey, Paddy,” the voice behind him said softly but clearly. A finger patted Alex’s shoulder. He turned, wary, wondering if they were going to fight. “I’m sorry we fucked with you, ese. For a Paddy you’ve got lots of guts. My name’s Lulu.”
The surge of bodies as the door opened amputated their conversation, though Alex didn’t know what to say anyway. He was still suspicious.
Mrs. Glantz made no attempt to teach. Nearly all the boys had been raised in slums and disliked school. They didn’t want to learn. Book learning had no value in their lives. Mrs. Glantz was happy if they didn’t fight or sabotage the room. Some did jigsaw puzzles, while others cut photos from a magazine for a collage that would eventually cover one wall. Some leafed through magazines of all kinds from huge cardboard boxes—the overflow of donations to the county medical center—not reading but looking at the photos and jokes. Even if the class wanted to learn, none of them would be in Juvenile Hall for more than two months (two weeks was average), and it was impossible to develop a curriculum when the class lacked continuity. Indeed, Mrs. Glantz saw so many come and go that she seldom bothered to learn a name. When she noticed Alex standing respectfully before her she knew he was a newcomer. She told him to find something to occupy himself with.
Lulu was at a desk in the rear, a pile of books stacked in front of him. Alex went by, hoping to receive an acknowledgment, but Lulu was engrossed in writing his name in a curlicued holograph, LULU DE TEMPLE, on the blank front and rear pages and the empty spaces where chapters ended. He wrote relentlessly, over and over.
Taking several Life magazines, Alex slipped behind a desk near Lulu, hoping not to be noticed, and quickly lost himself in the words and pictures, mostly about the war.
At midmorning the class went out to the softball diamond for a long recess. Lulu and a muscular black youth were told to pick teams. Alex, younger and smaller than any of the others but appearing probably superior to a very fat towhead with floppy ears, was chosen next to last by the black.
Before he could take the field, Mrs. Glantz called his name, not knowing who he was by sight. She was on a bench, and beside her was a monitor with the blue kerchief on his shoulder.
“Go with him,” Mrs. Glantz
said. “Dr. Noble wants to see you.”
As Alex followed the older boy toward the administration building, which was also the Receiving company and the hospital, he asked, “Who’s Dr. Noble?”
“A lady doctor. She’s the one you see when they think you might be nuts.”
Alex flushed, insulted. The monitor was fourteen, much too big for Alex to challenge, and so he swallowed his retort resentfully. Indeed, Alex himself often wondered if he was crazy; he obviously did things that were very different from other boys.
The monitor left him waiting on a hallway bench on the second floor. From an open door he could hear radio music, boogie-woogie and swing. He was just beginning to listen to music, realizing that it made him feel good most of the time. Now it filled his mind to pass the time.
A girl not much older than Alex came by, walking with a nurse. The girl shuffled along in floppy canvas slippers, and her gown was stretched far in front from advanced pregnancy. Alex was stunned that so young a girl could have a baby. She was nearly a baby herself.
A head of gray hair packed into a bun poked out of an office door. “Alex Hammond,” the woman said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Come on in.”
As Alex stepped into the office, his first impression was of books. A floor-to-ceiling bookcase lined one wall, and a typewriter stand was stacked high with them. Others were piled on the floor beside it. Then he looked to the desk with the large window behind it. The drapes were half open, exposing the bars and, beyond them, the roofs of the houses across the street.
The petite woman in the pale blue suit—its severe lines broken by a fluffy lace shirtwaist jutting from the bosom—wore her forty-plus years gracefully. Her blue eyes were both intent and warm, and her mouth seemed near a smile even in repose.
Little Boy Blue Page 6
