The Warden's Son

by C. G. Cooper

I’d only been in one laundry facility before. It was hot and smelled like that nauseating combination of detergent and filth with the sharp smell of bleach everywhere. It was loud, the thrumming of machines and a steady, dull boom, boom, boom; like being trapped inside a bass drum. But the noise and the heat made it a perfect place for dirty deeds.

  The truck came to another stop. Here’s where I was betting that Skip would help me again. It worked.

  First, he opened the tailgate. But instead of immediately unloading the laundry, or having one of the inmates do it for him, Skip went to find someone that would gab with him. Perfect. I’d chosen Skip because I knew he had a head full of cream cheese and liked to talk. So far, so predictable.

  I peeked out further, making my peephole bigger and bigger as I rearranged my hiding spot. No one in the immediate vicinity. One small problem: I hadn’t accounted for my thudding heart.

  Come on you wimp, I thought. Do it for Carlisle.

  If I got caught, I’d get throttled for sure. Possibly punished in a way that would hurt beyond the initial physical phase of discipline—I’d be grounded or have Marauder taken away for good. Not only that, there had to be some crime listed in the formidable annals of the Federal Bureau of Prisons.

  Infraction, 3829: Impersonating Laundry.

  My overactive imagination settled on the pleasant thought that the meanest inmate in the entire penal world would find me and do terrible things. At that age, I had no idea what that meant; however, I only had to conjure up the worst monsters from Kenji’s D&D adventures to give me a clue. Whatever they did to me, it would involve fire and something sharp, and wielded with the greatest expertise.

  I slid out of the truck bed backward on my belly. No one around and smack dab in the middle of a prison.

  And that’s when your humble servant committed his next mistake. How the hell was I going to get out?

  I found a spot behind an especially loud dryer. The rumble and jangle made my teeth rattle.

  Then, there was only one thing to do: stand here and think. And wait.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Third mistake: no watch.

  I couldn’t tell if time was running fast or slow. Meanwhile, my clothes were soaking with sweat. It was hot. Not like ninety-degree baking in the Virginia sun hot. No. This was getting locked in a sauna after someone dumped a bucket of water on hot coals hot. My throat felt like I’d swallowed a wool blanket. The possibility of getting caught was the only thing keeping me from focusing too hard on my thirst.

  Skip had already left with the truck and had taken his sweet time in the process. I knew the inmates liked him. Everyone wants someone to gab with—to connect and sometimes laugh. He was a bit too casual with them. Dad probably wouldn’t have approved. Nevertheless, he finally did his job and left me as the only civilian in the bowels of the beast.

  Inmates came and went. Sometimes it was one or two. At other times, it was a gaggle. The pace felt languid like being surrounded by bees caught in sap in late August.

  Then I saw him.

  Carlisle pushed a wheeled canvas laundry basket overflowing with prison uniforms. I wanted to jump from my hiding spot and run to him. I needed to tell him that I was there to save him. That was the plan, wasn’t it? But how in the world was I supposed to do that?

  Again, I hadn’t exactly planned that far. To be totally honest, I hadn’t thought I’d get much past the front gate.

  But I was there now, and I had to make the best of it.

  Carlisle passed from view. There was enough room to wiggle behind the dryer and on to the next. Then another. And another.

  There he was. An armload of clothing went into the washer, one at a time. Carlisle was wearing a stained tank top, drenched. Every inch of his exposed skin was glistening with sweat.

  I was close now—maybe eight or nine feet. Yet, I’d still have to shout if I wanted my friend to hear me, and that might bring other inmates. I couldn’t risk that.

  I moved a step closer, as far as I dared to go before exposing myself. My foot crunched on something. I lifted my foot and found the remnants of someone’s lunch. A few crackers littered the floor.

  I picked up two whole bits and looked back and forth. Coast was clear.

  The first cracker I threw like a baseball. It fell three feet short of my target.

  The next I readied to throw like a frisbee. A blubbering fat inmate appeared as I wound up. His chest was bare and covered in curly black hair like he was wearing the skin of a bear with a perm.

  “Whatdya say, Carlisle?” the man shouted. He had a cigarette stuck behind one ear, nearly covered by hair that matched his chest. “You running a meeting tonight?”

  “Not tonight. Too much to do.”

  The inmate’s arm rested on a bin, and his fat sloshed leeward.

  “The boys miss you; you know. It’s not the same without you.”

  “Too busy.”

  The man stared at Carlisle but received no further explanation.

  “Let me know if you need anything, buddy.” He patted Carlisle’s back like they were friends. There was real affection there.

  The inmate left, and Carlisle moved on to the next washing machine. I had one cracker left. After that, the only thing I could do was shout for his attention, or try to sneak from my hiding spot. Neither option was tempting. More than one prisoner had already appeared out of nowhere. There were too many angles of approach. Too many places I couldn’t see.

  I took aim and threw. The cracker went left, maybe pushed by a swirl of unseen air. I was about to groan when the projectile turned right in a natural curve and hit Carlisle in the middle of the back.

  He didn’t move.

  Then, ever so slowly, Carlisle turned. He saw the cracker on the ground. His eyes were slits, and he looked left, then right.

  I took a chance and waved. The movement caught his attention.

  He squinted, and I showed my face from the shadows. His eyes went wide, but he didn’t immediately come over. Instead, he finished his current load, started the machine, then picked up another armful of soiled clothing.

  I really thought he was going to ignore me. He didn't.

  He came my way. My body flooded with relief.

  His body cast a shadow over mine.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Jimmy?”

  His eyes flicked back and forth, never really locking onto mine. I wanted our eyes to meet. I wanted to see that it was really him. I can’t explain why. Maybe part of me thought his mind and body had been taken over by aliens. I don’t know.

  “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “Do you know what kind of trouble you could get me in?”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” The line cut. Up until now, I’d only been thinking about the trouble I could get in.

  Now his eyes met mine. It wasn’t the kind, understanding look I’d come to rely on. It was anger, pure and unfiltered, like a battered boxer leveling whatever spite he had left at his opponent.

  I must’ve taken a step back because he reached out for me, held me in place.

  “You shouldn’t be here, Jimmy.”

  “I know,” I said again. Now that I was here, I had no idea what to say. I’d prepped speech after speech. They were all stuck in whatever place a person’s oratory goes to die.

  A voice boomed above the tumult. Carlisle’s face tightened, and my body went slack with dread.

  It was Brady Bruce. And he was coming.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  I cowered behind the dryer as Carlisle went back to his task. I tried to shrink smaller when Bruce appeared.

  No way I could hear what the sadist was saying. He poked Carlisle in the chest, punctuating whatever he was saying time after time.

  The stick went back in its holster, and Bruce cracked his neck back and forth. Then he left.

  I was moving out of my hiding spot when Bruce appeared again, ghostlike. His strike was fast.

  The first blow hammered Carlisle’s
lower back. That made him arch back. It had been so quick that I only had time to gasp.

  The second swat with the nightstick whipped his front, doubling Carlisle over.

  Spittle trickled onto the floor. Bruce held his hands in the air like a conquering warrior. Then he grasped the stick using both of his hands; the dark knight about to slay his opponent.

  I did the only thing my mind and body would allow.

  I screamed.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  If I was trying to make a scene, it worked. It felt like the gears of the prison jammed to full stop.

  Bruce’s face whipped my way, arms still raised in the air.

  “Leave him alone!” I screamed; my voice much higher than the baritone for which I had been hoping. At least the fear was gone, swept away by anger and concern for my friend.

  Carlisle reached one of his hands out, and Bruce batted it down with fury. I saw the wrist snap and Carlisle’s face contorted in pain. He went down to one knee.

  I was all raging fury now. As an adult, I know the feeling. Bloodlust. Back then, all I knew was that I wanted more of it—more rage, more fury. I ran at Bruce, not knowing or caring about what I would do next.

  He turned to receive me, hands by his sides. There was a smile on his hateful face.

  My ten-year-old mind did quick math. I couldn’t reach Bruce’s face, and his torso was hard as a rock. I’d probably break my hand. So, I went with what every boy knew to be the sweet spot. Dead aim. Say goodbye to any prospect of having children, you bastard.

  I was a hair’s breadth from my target when Bruce planted a hand on the top of my head and held me at arm’s length. I turned into a trapped, flailing beast. I grabbed his wrist and bit into his hand. Warm, coppery blood flowed into my mouth.

  “Ow! You little son of a bitch! Stop that!”

  A slap came to the side of my head, and I spun to the ground with its stinging pain. My face tingled and then burned. My jaw locked momentarily. My eyes blurred. I could barely make out Bruce’s form through the tears, but I pushed past it.

  Then I stood, shakily. And I ran at Bruce again. And this time, I hit dead center. He bent at the middle when my double fist hit. Nothing left to do now but squeeze.

  Brady Bruce squealed like a pig. It was like hearing an angel’s song.

  Then something crashed into the back of my head, and my world spiked black.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  I came to slowly.

  I thought I heard voices through the fog. The pain was everywhere, radiating like a nuclear reactor from the back of my head. Even the tips of my toes hurt.

  “Hey, he’s coming around.”

  “Lie still now, Jimmy.”

  “Brave little shit,” the first voice said again.

  “Watch your mouth.” Was that Carlisle’s voice?

  One eye came open, and I snapped it closed just as fast.

  “I know it hurts, Jimmy, but you have to wake up.”

  My hand probed the back of my injured head for a gaping wound. In one of Kenji’s D&D adventures, we were attacked by an orc wielding what I eventually learned was called a mace. I was sure someone had clobbered me with one. There was a lump there the size of an egg. But no blood. That was good.

  Then the memory flooded back.

  “Bruce,” I said, my body spasming to a sitting position. Everything swirled. My ears rang with a high keen.

  “It’s okay,” Carlisle said.

  That’s when I noticed the absence of the laundry racket.

  “Where are we?”

  “Somewhere safe.”

  “For now,” the stranger’s voice said.

  I looked up to see the fat man from before towering over me. All my senses swirled back as the man’s body odor assaulted me. I looked past him and saw others. Old. Young. Hunched and straight. All staring.

  I backed up and bumped against a wall.

  “It’s okay,” Carlisle said. “No one’s gonna hurt you.”

  “Yeah, but Bruce might lick us all,” one from the gallery said.

  “Maybe we should kill him.”

  “Don’t be stupid. You’re in here for forging checks.”

  “Then I say we kick him in the balls a few more times. No sense letting that bastard breed.”

  There were murmurs of agreement.

  Carlisle raised a hand stopping the back and forth.

  “We need to get you home, Jimmy,” he said.

  “I don’t know if I can walk.”

  And I meant it. My stomach churned, and I knew I was going to puke. Luckily, I aimed left. What was left of breakfast splattered to the floor.

  “Now who’s gonna clean that up?” one of the inmates whined.

  “You’re gonna clean it up,” the fat man said to the whiner, his tone leaving zero room for refusal. “We’ve gotta get moving before Bruce wakes up.”

  “Did I knock him out?” I asked.

  There was a collective chuckle.

  “You did your best, kid. Really, you did,” the fat man said, his belly jiggling Jell-O. “I had to take him out with a mop. Took a couple of hits, but he’s out.”

  “You’ll get in trouble,” I said.

  “Would you look at that,” someone said. “The kid gives more of a shit about us than himself. Crazy little fucker.”

  “I said, watch your mouth.”

  “Oh, hey, sorry. I didn’t realize we had the Duke of York sitting here.”

  Another urge to vomit coursed up my esophagus. I choked it back. My world swayed like a teeter-totter.

  “We should get him checked out,” the fat man said.

  “No time,” Carlisle said.

  “Fine, but we need to get him out of here, now. Last call is in an hour.”

  “Yeah, what’s the plan, Carlisle?” another man asked.

  “I’m thinking.”

  “Well, think faster. I’m hungry.”

  The fat man spun and stomped toward the peanut gallery. I saw them scatter to the shadows.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, knowing I’d surely stepped in it this time.

  “You don’t need to be sorry, Jimmy. It’s the nicest thing anyone has done for me.”

  “But I can’t get out—"

  “You let me worry about that. Well, me, Chef, and God.”

  “Who’s Chef?”

  “I’m Chef,” the fat man said, back from chasing off the witnesses. He reached down a sweaty hand. “Pleased to meet a friend of Carlisle’s.” He let go and wiped his soaked forehead with the back of his arm. “You know I’m all for pleasantries Carlisle, but we’re gonna need a plan, and fast.”

  That’s when I saw the old Carlisle again. Confident. Sure. In the moment.

  “We get him outta here. That’s the plan.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  “You stay down,” said Carlisle.

  I didn’t like the plan: not one bit. But I nodded to Carlisle anyway, even though I wanted to run. Probably not the best idea considering my pounding headache and wobbly legs.

  “What about Bruce?” I asked.

  “I’d seen what they did to him. Tied him up like a pig going to slaughter.” Carlisle continued, “He won’t say a word. Wouldn’t help his growing reputation around here.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Carlisle grasped my forearm. “Let’s say he has more to lose than we do. Let’s say we don’t think your dad would take kindly to one of his guards hitting his son. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Brady Bruce is a liar, and people believe him when he lies. And no one believes a kid. Or an—” I stopped myself.

  A soft smile appeared on Carlisle’s face. “You can say it. No one believes a prisoner. You’re right. Life might get a little tough for the rest of us. But the next time I see you at the greenhouse, things are going to be fine."

  “The greenhouse? How?”

  Carlisle chuckled. A welcome sound considering the circumstances. “I’m asking your dad
for my job back. Well, as a matter of fact, he’s asked me to come back.”

  “Wait. When?”

  “I’d say ten times since I left. Your father’s a good man, Jimmy. The best warden I’ve had the pleasure of serving under.”

  There was built-in respect that the job commanded. But I’d never heard anyone voice respect because they meant it.

  If Carlisle was coming home, everything would be okay, even if Bruce was still on the loose.

  “Promise me you won’t leave again,” I said.

  “How about we take it one day at a time?”

  I couldn’t argue with that. The warmth radiating from Carlisle gave me faith in the future. I still can’t explain the calm that man imbued. It was the only thing that gave me the courage to ride in the back of the truck soon to be driven by Brady Bruce.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Bruce appeared, surrounded by the same group of inmates from my awakening. To his credit, he looked ninety percent of his cocky self. You couldn’t even tell he’d been knocked out and trussed like an animal.

  “Now you remember the deal, Mr. Bruce,” said Carlisle. “Jimmy gets home, and none of this gets back to the warden.”

  I expected a comeback, one with the bite of a jackal. None came. Bruce nodded his head and got into the driver’s seat.

  I didn’t understand the politics that went along with the play. To me, the bad man was free and could do whatever he wanted. That scared me to shivers.

  The truck rumbled to life, and off we went. I didn’t dare budge an inch within my hiding spot. Carlisle waved to me. His smiling image was the only thing that got me home sane.

  “Hey, Bruce,” the new gate guard hailed. “A little early for your rounds, aren’t you?”

  “Gotta take the laundry back to Warden Allen’s house.”

  The guard whistled.

  “Must be nice to have same day service. Never heard of it myself.”

  No reply came from Bruce, just the squeal of the gate opening.