Tattoo the Wicked Cross

by Salas, Floyd;

  A banner beneath the rose, with a blood-red MOTHER written across it in ornate letters, billowed with tension, too, and they both smiled; and Dominic asked, “How come no tattoos, man? A little dude with your rep oughtta have a tattoo.”

  Aaron shrugged in reply, although Stanley had made him scrub a fountain pen cross off his hand with the warning that he could only have one when he could whip his big brother. But there was more respect than criticism in the question, and Aaron felt the tattoos had given them something in common. The dinner whistle then brought the possibility of seeing Barneyway in the dining room, and Dominic’s beckoning nod was so friendly that Aaron eagerly followed his example and stood at the foot of his own bed for count.

  The Buzzer shuffled down the aisle, checking the count, and smiled at Aaron as he passed. Aaron answered with a cool nod, which, although not hostile, came from a growing sense of safety and his success, so far, in keeping his distance from the guy until he could defend himself. The Buzzer kept smiling but also kept the thick skin fold at the back of his neck to Aaron when he returned, checking the other row.

  “You’re sharp, man, for not trusting that guy,” Dominic said; and Aaron nodded again, with gratitude and increasing confidence, and he snapped smartly to attention when the Buzzer called count, and, without turning his head, watched the man come striding through the doorway and complete the count with such efficiency it seemed a lucky sign.

  The man marched down the bed row, tanned and wiry in his khaki uniform, pad and pencil in hand, mumbling, lips twitching, eyes two boys ahead of the boy he was passing, counting the second row before he had finished the first row and even started back toward the door, jotting down his total while he walked, three beds before he reached the last boy, his footsteps then thumping across the courtyard before the screen door even started to swing shut or the Buzzer began to lead a single file line out onto the porch.

  The smack of rubber-soled brogans marking time until the command to move out the gate echoed under the porch roof and was as invigorating as a drum beat to Aaron, who stood next to Dominic like a buddy now, who bent his knees and placed his feet with the cleanly coordinated movements he had learned in the Scouts, who felt a part of the beat, who moved with a fluid motion out the gate on the Buzzer’s command, who made a flawless column right on the paved road, who marched briskly to the smacking rhythm of shoe rubber on asphalt and to a meeting with his best buddy.

  He marched in a blue two-man column a city block long, beneath the mild rays of the late afternoon sun, a clear sky, with a spine stiffened by confidence and pride and Dominic’s critical but approving stare, sure now the rumor was a shuck story, sure he’d be able to handle the Buzzer, sure he was making an impression on all the guys in the dorm, sure he’d get a good institute rep soon, and sure, he kept his shoulders back, his chin high, and swung his arms smartly in time to the slap of rubber soles.

  He marched nimbly up the hill that he had slunk fearfully down only a short time before and leveled off at its top without a perceptible backward jerk of his trunk, and marching sharply, he began to look for Barneyway before he reached the mess hall, and marching sharply, still looking, he passed through the wide doorway of the dining room, where the column split into two single file lines, which moved down opposite walls, and in which the boys no longer marched but walked, although he marched, still looking, until the slow shuffle of the jammed line, moving forward to the food counter, brought him to a halt.

  Then he began to look around the large room for Barneyway. He scanned the white-uniformed kitchen crew at the counter, who filled each pocket of his tray with large servings of food: a tin bowl of beans with its savory aroma, shredded cabbage moist with vinegar and oil, syrupy plums, a slab of cake, and two slices of bread; then he searched the tables as he accompanied Dominic down the center aisle to a long table near the entrance.

  He scanned the entire room again before he sat down: the dwindling lines at the food counters and the tables now nearly filled with boys; and the familiar scrape and click of metal spoons on metal trays, the clink of tin cups and metal pitchers filled with milk and steaming coffee, and the noisy drone of voices made him feel he understood them. He knew what they were thinking, for this was the same experience on a large scale that he had known at the detention home. Dinner time was one of the best times of the day, better than lunch because another day was almost whipped and because everybody, including himself, could cross off another day, yet, each boy telling himself that he really couldn’t count the day yet, at least not until lights out, but counting it as finished anyway, though not admitting it to himself, but knowing he could legally three-quarters count it, and, then, forgetting to count it, finally, in the pleasure of the meal, of filling his belly, of doing something he liked in a world he hated.

  And then he, too, sat down to do something he liked, and he shoveled the beans and their tasty brown soup into his mouth steadily until he had eaten half his portion.

  He looked around the hall once more, still without luck, but still optimistic, still sure he would see Barneyway before the day was over. Then, still searching, he washed down the salty taste of the beans with a full cup of milk and was lowering the cup from his lips and could still taste its metal when he heard the sound of marching feet on the pavement behind him. He turned around as a short column of boys entered and hurried down to the food counter, and his heart jumped in his chest, for Barneyway was among them, his crewcut head almost lost between the shoulders of two taller boys.

  Aaron struggled with his urge to jump up and shout. But when the first boys in the column reached the table opposite his and walked to its far end to sit down, and Barneyway started to follow them, his tray balanced in his hands, his huge eyes already concentrated upon the section of the table where he would sit, Aaron could not control himself any longer, and he raised up from the bench and waved his arm.

  But he was too late, for Barneyway turned without noticing him, and a man, who was standing by the food counter, looked curiously at him, and, afraid to call out, he dropped back on the bench, under Dominic’s inquisitive frown.

  “Who you waving at, man?”

  “That guy! Barneyway! The little guy with the big eyes, who’s just sitting down. See him? Know him?”

  Dominic’s upper lip lifted into a contemptuous curve and Aaron’s next question dropped to a whisper.

  “What compa-ny … are … those … guys … in …?”

  “Those guys,” Dominic said, “are from the hospital. Some are walking cases who come down to the dining room so they won’t have to take a lot of trays up there, and the rest of them, most of them, are protected punks on Queens’ Row.”

  He broke his bread and sopped up the brown bean juice with it as if the subject were beneath him, then bit down hard on the bread with his square teeth, ripped it away with his tattooed fingers, and turned his frown on Aaron.

  “Barneyway?” Aaron asked, putting everything he meant in pronouncing his name.

  The scowl on Dominic’s face made it appear as if chewing his bread was hard work. He swallowed, then turned to his food again, raised the cup of milk to his mouth, and, just before drinking, said, “He’s in the dairy dorm with us.”

  Aaron was partially relieved by the answer, but Dominic’s attitude left the question about the rumor more in doubt than ever, and he began to worry about why Barneyway was in the hospital. He left his cabbage untouched, the beans half-eaten, picked at the plum, and ate all the cake with another cup of milk, without gaining the nerve to ask another question, afraid that Barneyway had been stomped and that Dominic was involved in some way.

  “You gonna wait for that guy?” Dominic asked when he had finished.

  A mouth full of milk and cake gave Aaron an excuse to nod, but he regretted it as he watched Dominic turn away, drop his tray on the scullery counter with a clatter, toss his silverware, his cup, and his bowl into wire racks, and walk out the door without him, for it seemed an unhappy foreboding.


  Perspiration dampened his forehead as he stalled at the table, for in addition to the warmth his worry produced, the dining room was hot from the heat of the ovens, the steam-tables, the food, and the closely quartered bodies. Soon, he was the only one left at his table and one of the few people, besides those from the hospital, still in the dining room, and the contrast between its deserted appearance and how it had seemed when he had first entered, when it was crowded and he was happy, was depressingly apparent to him.

  The kitchen crew, moving swiftly in white uniforms, began to clear the tables and wipe up the last traces of what had been, for him, the very best moments of the week’s time he had done in the institute. The glances of a curly-haired blond kid, whose cheeks expanded like bellows with each shouted order and whose mouth wheezed into a sneer when it was completed, made him feel so conspicuous he went outside to wait, for he was afraid there might be some rule about visiting other tables.

  The sun was only a foot above the blue rim of the distant coastal hills, and he waited in the long wall shadow next to the doors, reminding himself that getting placed in the same dormitory with Barneyway was a lot to be thankful for, something he couldn’t have planned, and tried to convince himself that a few quick words from Barneyway would take care of all his doubts about the rumor and the hospital.

  There was a loud clatter of several trays, voices, and footsteps; and anticipating the pleasure of the greeting, he flattened himself against the wall and prepared to surprise his friend.

  Several pink-faced, meek-appearing boys came through the doors, and the blond kid closest to Aaron jumped with fright when he saw him. But Aaron put his forefinger to his lips for silence, and the boys moved away, some smiling at the blond’s fright. The blond himself stayed in front of them, putting as much distance between himself and Aaron as he could without attracting attention.

  Punk! Aaron thought. Queen! Sissy! Broad! The sneer on his face chilled the smiles, and only the blond bothered to peek back before disappearing with the group around the corner of the mess hall.

  When Aaron turned once more to his watch, Barneyway had already stepped out of the doorway and was making a wide right turn in an obvious effort to keep a safe distance away from the boy flattened so mysteriously against the wall, although there was curiosity and even some humor in his large eyes.

  “Barneyway!” Aaron yelled and jumped at him, and saw recognition of himself in his friend’s face the instant the arms were thrown up in protection and locked with his own arms in mock combat.

  But the momentum of the leap drove Barneyway back until, with a scraping of his shoes and a deep flushing of his face, he managed to hold his ground. Then Aaron laughed and Barneyway laughed, and Aaron let go and Barneyway let go. Aaron could then see his own tight smile in Barneyway’s tight smile, his own tense, crouched body in Barneyway’s tense, crouched body. He popped his fist against Barneyway’s shoulder and Barneyway hit him. He reached out and Barneyway reached out, and they clasped hands and squeezed until white tension framed their fingernails.

  “When did you get here, Aaron?” Barneyway asked and released his grip.

  “Last Friday. Just got out of isolation this afternoon.”

  “Man! Boy! Man! Is it good to see you.”

  “Good to see you, buddy,” Aaron said, forgetting, in his pleasure, all about the rumor which had bothered him so much in the detention home, which had tortured him so badly the long lonely week in isolation, which had seemed so unescapable and true only a few minutes earlier, and he asked, out of nothing more than a desire to talk:

  “What are you doing in the hospital?” and caught his breath at the importance of the answer.

  But Barneyway began to walk at a nonchalant pace toward the hospital and answered, casually:

  “I had a fever yesterday. Felt weak. So I checked into the hospital. I’ll probably stay a couple more days.”

  And Aaron breathed again and noticed the heavy baritone of Barneyway’s voice, for it seemed to have deepened in the month since they had seen each other, and his own voice was still a piping tenor.

  “Hope you get out soon,” he said, too pleased by the answer to mention the rumor, and noticed also that while Barneyway’s eyes were still large and soft, his smooth, unblemished skin now stretched over a bony prominence: twin ridged cheekbones and a jutting clefted chin, in particular.

  “I’ll probably get out quick. Not any fever now. Just a little weak still,” Barneyway said, and the black and heavy down, thickening on his upper lip, slightly strengthened the weak smile he gave to discount his illness. Although the smile appeared as shallow to Aaron as the reflection of the setting sun on the hospital windows, he tried to make Barneyway feel better.

  “Guess what? I’m in the dairy company with you, and we’ll get to buddy up all the time we’re here, all the time, Barney,” he said, expecting a wide grin, but a blank expression dropped over Barneyway’s face like a window shade, drawing the rumor down between them.

  Barneyway then started quickly up the hospital walk, jerking his wiry body with each swift step, swinging his arms as if the elbows were locked and he could not bend them, and making a frustrated fist of each hand by tucking his thumbs under clenched fingers.

  Aaron rushed after him to keep him from going inside the hospital and grabbed his arm at the foot of the stairs and stopped him; but Barneyway pulled his arm free with such a violent wrench that Aaron motioned to him to sit down rather than risk a question.

  They sat in silence on the hospital steps as the sun set beyond the coast range, while Aaron tried to think of a way to find out what was wrong without starting an unpleasant conversation; but the low streak of clouds which hung over the ocean burned with the deep red of the vanishing sun for such a brief while before smoldering out, and the lawn, the steps, the hospital windows all took on the dark tones of dusk with such dispiriting speed that he surrendered to the melancholy within him, to the dying day about him, and made no attempt to speak.

  There was no breeze but the air was cool. Crickets began to chirrup with a loud volume that Aaron could not help but compare to the muted and more lonely chirruping which he had heard from his isolation cell, but which, although less lonely, saddened him, too, and made him want to break the depressing mood that had come over himself and his friend on their very first meeting, a meeting which had meant so much to him, a meeting he considered trying to improve by telling Barneyway he had heard lies about him but didn’t believe them, and that.…

  But Barneyway sat too morose and too silent to speak to, staring out over the grounds into the quickly settling night; his face wounded and yet very manly in profile against the final red glow of the horizon, contoured like an athlete’s from the crewcut to the clefted chin; his small mouth a bare line.

  The strong cast of the features caused Aaron to recall the stubborn, almost Indian set they took on when Barneyway was forced into a corner: a withdrawn expression which showed a willingness to suffer as long as it could hate, and Aaron often wanted to smash it off the face with his fist. But there was no hate in the features now, only the impression of a disquieting pain, an impression which Aaron was afraid to question through fear of hurting himself as well as Barneyway.

  The glow from the unseen compound lights gradually outlined the gray block of the mess hall and the sloping hill before them. A large globed night light burned brightly above the sloping ramp of the gym now, too, and the floodlights on the watchtower at the main gate were severely visible in the distance.

  Dots of light from scattered cars moved slowly and freely across the darkened landscape, while dark knots of boys moved slowly up and down the sloping ramp in front of the gym as if they were caged there, talking in low voices which were not decipherable but were depressing to Aaron: for he knew the boys were telling each other stories about the “outs.”

  He knew that each guy would take a turn and try to make his story good enough, exciting enough, and brave enough to capture the imagination of the other
s, and convince them of how heroic and beautiful and true his dream world was, and share it with them. He knew that the other guys were listening patiently, trying to get in contact with the story so they could really experience it, really become buddies with the guy telling it, and through it escape the jail in which they were trapped. He knew that while they were listening, they were trying to get ideas on the same subject for stories of their own, which they could tell when their turns came.

  He knew what was happening on the ramp, although it was his very first day on the institute grounds, because he had seen a hundred guys do the same thing in the detention home. Every reform school graduate he had ever met had the same storytelling habit or didn’t talk at all, and this was the reason he had doubted the fat kid’s story. He did listen to the good talkers, including the fat kid, and he even enjoyed the stories, encouraged them to tell others, but he snubbed the bad liars into silence by withholding all comments when they had finished, by his failure to say, “Gee! Yeah! No lie? Mother’s Honor?”

  Nightfall soon diffused the outlines of the separate groups on the ramp, and Aaron could see only a mass of indistinct heads under the night light. The storytelling now seemed so wasted and futile to him, he wanted to shout at them that they were all bad liars, that they were all locked in jail, that they weren’t great gangster heroes or movie-star lovers, and that no lie would ever set them free; and he turned to Barneyway, unable to contain himself any longer, needing to hear the clear sound of his own voice in order to rid himself of the depressing sound of the voices on the ramp.

  Barneyway turned to him at the same moment and both spoke at once. Each asked about the other’s family, stopped to let the other speak, and then broke into laughter at the confusion and the abrupt silence.

  “You first,” Aaron said, more than willing to listen to anything that the smooth plane, which composed Barneyway’s face in the faint light from the hospital entrance behind them, wished to say.