by Serra, D. A.
Primal
The most dangerous place on earth is between a mother and her child…
D.A. Serra
Perry Street Pictures, Inc.
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Copyright 2012 Perry Street Pictures, Inc.
License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead are coincidental.
Special thanks to our cover artist Dave Preciado.
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Chapter One
Samuel slips the knife to Rex.
Wilkins rocks forward onto his toes, to get a clear look at Ben, who sits in reverence with his head dropped forward, exposing the pale smooth nape of his vulnerable neck. The air is rank with odor from damp armpits, oily hair, and decaying gums. It’s the smell of rot. When Wilkins has guard duty on Sunday mornings, he watches Ben Burne, because it makes him feel hopeful here among the human scrap meat. He is drawn to the devotion on Ben’s face, and so he doesn’t notice the jagged-edged homemade blade as it is passed from one inmate’s hand to the next, underneath the lip of the stainless steel pew.
Rex hands the knife to Heto.
This ascetic chapel with a plastic altar is populated every Sunday by lifers who, if given the chance, would slash God’s throat. They attend services as an alternative to sitting in their cells. Wilkins thinks about how no one wants to be here, no one except Ben. Ben is enraptured. He communes with the hanging wooden crucifix lost in a personal reverie: Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with thee. The lime paint of the prison’s cinder block wall doesn’t tint Ben’s face in the same ghoulish way it colors the skin of the other inmates. Wilkins wonders if this is a sign. Yes, he thinks it is. Yes, God is trying to tell him something. He has cast the glory of His forgiveness on Ben Burne.
Ben nods his head in prayer. He has lost a lot of hair for only fifty-three years old; the penitentiary food and harsh soap are hard on the body. Ben has managed to stay muscular by lifting weights in his cell and using the window bars for chin-ups. He raises his face. Real tears swim in his eyes as he swells with piety.
Ben, with his reputation, is a celebrity here; as long as Ben is around with his superior air and his attention grabbing ways, well, it pisses off some of the others who feel just as deserving, just as tough. And they are just as tough — they just aren’t as smart. In any room, in every room, Ben is the puppet master.
Heto passes the knife to Leon.
Leon is an obelisk of a man: tall, thick, and sitting directly behind Ben. A grisly anticipation ripples through the room, knowing glances are exchanged and eyes light up, giddy with expectation. Wilkins tilts his head, sensing a palpable shift in the room. His eyes narrow; where is it coming from? He scans the pews up and down. He peers underneath at the shoes solidly on the floor. What is it? He can’t place it. At the altar, the chaplain prays fervently for each of these men’s souls. He feels some solace in knowing that at least he has saved one man. He has saved the soul of Ben Burne.
The inmates in Leon’s row shudder eagerly. Leon likes holding everyone’s attention this way. They are waiting for his move. He tenses first. Then, his jaw drops slightly open. Saliva moistens his mouth and a drop of spit forms on his canine tooth. Right next to him, the skinny hollow-eyed inmate giggles in a small sharp burst - the sound of caged madness. Leon’s fingers clench around the knife. Ready. He springs up! The chaplain looks. Leon’s knife hand juts up and then powers down toward Ben’s bare neck. Miraculously, Ben’s hand jerks up and grabs the blade. It sinks deep into his palm. He makes no sign of pain. He closes his fist around it and the two men stand in a struggle of power and will. The room erupts. They are animals sprung loose - clawing and fighting. Wilkins battles through the melee to get to Ben and Leon who are locked eye-to-eye and motionless as blood gushes from Ben’s closed fist. Wilkins is almost there when an inmate jumps him from behind reaching for his weapon. With eyes in the back of his head, Ben uses his other hand to karate chop the inmate, breaking his neck and sending him to the floor without even a scream. Wilkins regains himself, grateful to Ben, who has not taken his eyes off Leon. Wilkins pulls his gun out and shoots four rounds into the ceiling. The fighting stops at the sound of the gunshots. Other guards burst in. Wilkins moves in next to Leon where he and Ben are frozen in inert combat with the blade closed into Ben’s fist. Wilkins levels his weapon at Leon’s head.
Ben scolds, “Leon, this is a place of worship.”
Flooded with adrenaline, Wilkins rests his weapon on Leon’s temple and adds, “And I hope you’ve been praying.”
Ben turns his eyes calmly to Wilkins, “Not in God’s house.”
A tremulous silence, they all wait for Wilkins’ decision: life or death. He has the choice. He could pull the trigger and no one would care. One less animal to feed and cage. Society might shake its head, but it would be grateful to be rid of him. At this moment, with the muzzle of the gun at Leon’s temple, and with everyone waiting, the choice is his. He could take this life. He wants to take this worthless life. The muscles in his face give a little. His blood calms. Two other guards sense it and step forward grabbing Leon. They slam him to the cement floor breaking his jaw and his nose. They pull his arms behind his back and cuff him. Other guards have taken charge of the rioting rabble and order is harshly restored. Ben opens his hand. Wilkins carefully pulls the embedded knife from Ben’s palm.
“I’ll take you to the infirmary,” Wilkins says.
Ben nods, turns to leave with him, but then stops and asks the chaplain, “Father, are you all right?”
The shaken chaplain nods. He drops to his knees and says a prayer for Ben’s soul. Wilkins leads Ben out of the chapel and down the hall toward the infirmary.
Wilkins is amazed at Ben’s ability to withstand the pain and asks, “How did you do that?”
“God did that - saved us both - you and me. But evidently he has turned his attention to other things because it hurts like a motherfucker now.” These two men almost smile at each other. How strange, Wilkins thinks, to see the budding of humanity in a man with this kind of history. What was it that turned Ben Burne?
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Chapter Two
Harbor Hills Elementary School blends in with the serene suburban neighborhood: sweet two-story homes of white, yellow, and blue, stand in neat lines on both sides of the street. The roads have been recently paved so the asphalt is coal black and makes the green of the grass yards and the colorful fall flowerbeds bitingly vibrant. The streetlamps have an old-fashioned oblong glass that suggests folks have been raising their families here for a long time. The damp earthy smell of fallen leaves hangs in the air along with the dying honeysuckle. In this traditional Midwestern town with its huge oak and sugar maple trees life feels settled and yielding, as if it knows where it is going; the path is trodden and soft on the feet.
Inside Alison Kraft’s classroom with its dangling solar system made out of Styrofoam balls, and its encouraging aphorisms pasted to the walls, the majority of the third graders are listening to her. She considers the majority a victory. This generation is accustomed to sensory deluge; they splash through the rising tech tide with instincts the
generation before them just don’t have. Her generation debated the efficacy of multitasking; these kids never do one thing at a time. They carry the world electronically in the palm of their hands: they text, and shop, and do homework, watch movies, and download music all at the same time. She feels successful if half of the class pays attention to her at one time since she is limited by not being a multimedia purveyor. Alison is a popular teacher. And when this year’s crop of scruffy boys and American Doll girls look at her, she sees their potential. These are the faces of tomorrow and she is aware of that truth every day she teaches them. She knows that one of them will do something special. There is no way to know which one, so she committed years ago to teach each child as though they were the one. Her students sense her belief in them, and they love her for it. She has “cheery eyes” they say. Their parents like her because she’s tender, and even with all the inherent lunacy of grammar school, impatience is not in her nature.
Alison and Hank moved here to Hank’s home after college. They married here and he started a business with his high school buddies. Alison likes this little midland town in Minnesota, but she does wander the streets sometimes wishing the donut shop were a pâtisserie, and that the movie selection at the fourplex would try something without gunfire, and she jokes that she would give her right arm for a piano bar. She misses the city world she grew up in, but she knows this is the ideal place for Hank and her to raise their son, Jimmy, and that’s the priority. Life comes in phases. This is Jimmy’s time to learn and run free. Watching him is fulfilling. It is the most fulfilling and joyful experience of her life. The piano bar will wait for her. She assumes there will be time.
Moving down the aisle between the school desks, Alison points to the large colorful poster of predators all along the wall: coyotes, bears, and cheetahs. “A mom animal will use her teeth, horns, hooves, stingers, whatever. Some mothers divert predators from their babies by using elaborate movements or by changing their appearance.” She turns down the aisle in a deceptive stroll toward one particular boy. “Others rely on speed or surprise!” She yanks the iPod earphones out of Tanner’s ears. He looks startled and a little scared for having been caught. They look at each other for a moment. She holds his eyes.
“Uh…oh…sorry, Ms. Kraft.”
“Okay, Tanner, but one more time and I’m keeping these for myself. They’re really cool.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She hands him back the earphones. “Now,” addressing the entire class, “for your homework for the next few days while the substitute is here.” Loud groans from the instantly gloomy children. Howie Hunter drops his forehead down on the desktop in despair. She tries not to smile at him, so cute, so bereft, his shaggy blond hair covering his face. “Oh, right” she teases then, “these substitutes really are creatures from the Black Lagoon.”
“Where is the Black Lagoon?” Sarah asks Joey.
“France.”
“Oh, Mrs. Kraft!” Sarah whines, “I don’t speak France.”
Keeping a straight face with difficulty, “I’m quite certain the substitute speaks English.”
Howie adds, “I knew a kid who spoke France. He was annoying.”
“Howie, just because someone is from France does not mean they’re annoying. France has a beautiful language, lovely museums, pretty countryside, and the biggest erector set right in the middle of the city.”
“Really?” Howie asks excited.
“Yes. We can see some photos of the Eiffel Tower and learn more about France when I return. Now, the homework. I want each of you to pick a book from the library, absolutely any book, even a comic book, if you want, and read - that’s all - just read and then tell the class about the story when I return. Okay?”
The bell rings and gleefully the kids fly out of the classroom. The room empties in seconds leaving a sudden complete silence after the last fleeing footstep. Alison remembers being their age and watching the clock as is ticked toward freedom. She was, and still is, a daydreamer. Her imagination has always had a wanderlust. She scans the room for a moment, and sees the usual: orphaned hair ties on the floor, several lunch boxes (mold experiments by tomorrow) and inexplicably one pink sock. She muses there is something exceedingly poignant about an empty classroom. One empty classroom feels so much more forlorn than an entirely vacant office building. As she straightens up the room, she thinks that must have something to do with the impermanence of childhood itself - the moving on: the seventh grader who becomes the teenager who becomes the college kid and leaves the toys behind. Closing up her desk, Alison wonders if at night, when the janitor sweeps his way through the silence of these rooms, if the echoes of thousands of children’s voices keep him company as he pushes the broom. They call the janitor Old Man Tinker, even though he’s only forty years old. She wonders how old she looks to them. It makes her grin as she collects up her purse and a few papers. She flips off the classroom lights, steps out into the school hallway.
Denise and Gary are also heading for the door. Denise interrupts Alison’s thoughts, “Hi, Alison. You look thoughtful.”
“Just considering my old age.”
Gary says, “I’m looking forward to old age, sitting in an armchair, watching the television, and reveling in being the full-time cynic I know I am.”
Alison smiles wryly, “Gary, cynicism is an intellectual overcoat; it’s just an empty gesture of sophistication. Smirking at the world is a cop-out.”
“I think empty is underrated.” Gary holds the door open for the two women. They smile at him and walk through. Denise and Alison are fairly good friends even though Alison holds the minutes of her life closely, spending most of her time with Hank, Jimmy, and a good book. Still, they enjoy each other when thrown together by their daily lives or by school events. Denise has a nontoxic envy for Alison and Hank’s relationship, the only two married people she knows who visibly, demonstratively love each other. She sees them exchange secretive smiles and she always has the feeling when around them that they are sharing a fun and private view of the outside world. While she can’t help but envy them, she’s happy to know a connection like that is achievable. She studies them. She judges all of her dates against them.
“Jimmy’s birthday tonight?” Denise asks.
“Yes. Legions of in-laws eating like locusts and using my bathroom guest towels.”
“Oh, you love it.” Denise teases her.
“True. Hank’s family is endlessly entertaining.”
“And then you’re out of town for the rest of the week?” Gary asks.
“Four days.” They hear a wisp of reluctance.
“What?” he nudges her good-naturedly, “You’d rather be here scraping gum off the bottom of your shoes?”
“It’s a close call.”
Denise asks, “Where are you going?’
“Nowhere you would go in a million years.” Alison gives them both a warm smile and turns left toward the parking lot. “See you next week.” But she won’t see them next week. And when she does see them again - they won’t know her.
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Chapter Three
Warden Tummelson knows what it’s like to be God. He controls these men’s lives - he controls their deaths. This penitentiary houses the worst the human race has to offer: the baby eaters, the dismemberment junkies. He’s the gatekeeper on death row. After eleven years here, Tummelson does feel as though he’s the one imprisoned. He does the best job he can, but long ago he stopped being able to get clean. No one knows he has begun to wash compulsively and last week in the shower, he scrubbed the skin off his left elbow. When his sister Amy gave birth, three weeks ago, to his first niece, he stood next to her white fluffy crib in the hospital, but refused to pick her up. He would not. He has been permanently and irrevocably sullied. He walks slowly over to his office window as Wilkins and Doctor Kim stand on the other side of his desk and wait. Tummelson wonders how he wound up here in this room making these kinds of decisions. How he wound up a prison warden at all. It wasn’t something
he planned for or worked toward. He thinks most people wind up capriciously in their life’s work - it is a surprise instead of a thoughtful journey to a specific choice. It requires so much focus, and even more importantly, the suspension of derailing events to successfully follow a path all the way. He would love to know how many people, if asked, would say ‘oh, yeah, I’m doing exactly what I planned,’ or for that matter, ‘exactly what I wanted.’ Kids, when asked in grade school what they want to be when they grow up, answer something interesting, something important. All children think they’re important. It will be years before they realize they are a tiny component in a big ugly human machine, and they are easily replaced. Some folks, he believes, never realize that, maybe those are the lucky ones. He would be willing to bet that no child, when asked to speculate on their future, says ‘I want to be a middle manager at a packaging plant,’ or ‘a salesman in a discount clothing store,’ or ‘a prison warden? Tummelson believes most people cannot trace the path that got them where they are. It is circuitous and rife with intervening events, a sick parent, a pregnancy, an application denied, a broken heart, a lack of funds. The immediate necessity of making a living surely led him from one stopgap job (where he never planned to stay) to another, and then another, and so here he is today, standing in this stifling office with a desk drawer full of Purell antiseptic gel. He turns to Wilkins and the frustration shakes in his tone.
“Come on, Wilkins, every damn inmate on death row finds God at the end. Ben Burne? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I’ve been watching him for a long time. He saved my life. I’m telling you it’s genuine.”
“During the First National Bank robbery, which he pulled with his brothers, he shot a twenty-year-old teller in the face for sneezing.”
“I know.”
“Two years ago at the Miami Brinks holdup he drove the truck over a three-year-old who got in the way.”
