Tattoo the Wicked Cross

by Salas, Floyd;

  “Everybody should have a good broad. If every guy had a good broad, he wouldn’t end up in a joint like this.”

  “I guess that’s true,” Aaron said, agreeing both because he believed it and to soften Dominic’s tone, and he tried to bring Jenson into the conversation:

  “Every guy should have a girl alright.”

  The blond hair at the back of Jenson’s head blocked the dormitory light, but Aaron, because of the difference in their heights, the distance between their faces, could distinguish the angry curve of his nose, his sharp mouth and jawbone, and could still smell the whisky.

  Jenson didn’t answer, and Aaron, trying to disregard the snub, turned past him, looked into the dormitory, and a warm smile spread up his own face like the first sputtering flare of a match flame.

  “Look! I never thought I’d ever see a resemblance between the Buzzer and Barneyway.”

  The Buzzer lay with his hands clasped beneath his head, elbows protruding, a few feet from the screen door, and across the aisle, down a row of legs, Barneyway lay with his hands clasped beneath his head, gazing at the ceiling.

  “Even those guys need broads,” Dominic said.

  “Yeah, even them,” said Jenson.

  “Yeah,” Aaron said, keeping his voice low, feeling guilty because he had avoided Barneyway all day and because he had enjoyed himself so much at the Buzzer’s expense.

  “It sure surprised me the way the Buzzer let his mother slap him around today. Man, I even felt a little sorry for him, and I never thought that would be possible.”

  “The dude was even humble when Big Stoop let him come back to the dormitory before dinner,” Dominic added and turned to the courtyard again, followed by Jenson.

  Aaron turned, too, but the night throbbed with his guilt now, as gentle as the bleat of the crickets but as persistent and aching, for the Buzzer had been humble when he had returned to the dormitory, and he had been humble and obedient to his mother, while his own behavior, in which he lost his head like a madman over another’s suffering, would have shocked his mother.

  “Looked like he was just waiting for somebody to say something about his mother, though, to forget how ashamed he was,” Dominic said.

  “Don’t blame him,” Aaron said, trying to ease his conscience a little. “A mother means a lot to a guy.” He was thankful they couldn’t see the twinge of self-pity he felt cross his face.

  “She means everything, man,” Jenson said, in a low, growling tone. “I’d kill for my mother.”

  Dominic’s cheek wrinkled in disbelief.

  “Mother’s Honor!” Jenson said, defending himself against their unspoken doubt. “I was gonna kill my old man for her only about a month before I got busted and sent here.”

  Dominic’s cheek smoothed into a tolerant shield, obviously waiting for the story, willing to listen only because Jenson was going to tell it.

  “It’s the truth, man,” Jenson said, speaking to Aaron to get his support and so determined that he convinced Aaron, who wanted to believe him and who nodded, listening.

  “One night when I came home late from the show, my old man was beatin’ on my Mom. You guys saw her today. She has trouble just walking, and every time he’d slap her with his big hand, she’d drop. He smelled like a brewery. I could smell his drunken, stinking breath when I walked in the kitchen. My Mom was on the floor. I had heard her scream when I walked down the driveway to the back of the house. I didn’t wantta go in. Knew what I’d see. But she wasn’t hurt. Just a little blood tricklin’ out of her nose, and her face was all red from where his big paw had left its mark.

  “You know my Ma ain’t pretty, you guys,” Jenson stopped as if to make sure he had their attention; but to Aaron, the explanation and the pause were as poignant and as delicately futile as the soft pat of a moth’s body and the flutter of its wings as it hit the screen behind him, for Jenson had his attention and his sympathy.

  “My Ma don’t even set her hair and it hangs stringy and straight as a horse’s down her head, and she ain’t too smart, either, can barely read.” His voice twanged with the stress of explaining these uncomfortable facts. “She ain’t the cleanest housewife I ever saw in my life, and she looks in her forties and she’s only in her early thirties. But she’s my Mom. You know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, I know,” Aaron said.

  “Yeah … I know, too,” Dominic said, as if he really knew.

  “Well, man, she’s layin’ on the floor, whimperin’, and I can see the gap where he knocked out two teeth before. Her eye is bloodshot, too, and he’s giving her hell because she didn’t wash the dishes or somethin’—I don’t know—but really because he came home drunk and wants to take his crummy misery out on somebody else. Man, I wantta bawl. But I go into my room and undress to my shorts, climb under the blankets, don’t have no sheets, and try to go to sleep. But he keeps picking on her and there ain’t no door between my room and the kitchen. So, I got the light in my face and his loud, drunken voice in my ears, and the army blankets scratchin’ against my skin, and about every five minutes or so, in between yells, he hits her again and down she goes.

  “This goes on for about an hour and I’m so mad I can’t help cryin’ to myself. I want to jump out of bed and strangle him shut. But he finally runs out of lush, gets too loaded to argue, gets sleepy, and staggers off to his room. I hear the springs when he flops down. My Mom stays in the kitchen and washes her face off in the sink. I can hear her sort of whimperin’ to herself. It sounds like a little kid in a corner. I’m hatin’ so bad that I jump up, walk into the kitchen in my shorts, jerk open the drawer with a rattle of spoons and stuff, and grab a butcher knife, and I ask her, man, and I’m cryin’ hot tears, man, but I’m not sobbin’, and she’s cryin’ tears and whimperin’, too, and her nose is swollen and turning blue all over one side, and I ask her if she wants me to kill ’im. I tell her if she wants me to, I’ll do it right then. I’ll go into the bedroom and stick that blade in up to my fist. I tell her that. But she says no. She says that it’s okay. That he don’t really hurt her, anyway. And she says that though he’s a mean bastard, she don’t want ’im dead. Then I ask her if I can kill ’im for me! So I won’t have to listen to ’im beat on her anymore. And she says no, she don’t want me to. And she wipes her face and quits cryin’, except for a hiccup or two, and tells me to go to bed. And I do. But when I’m goin’ through the doorway, she calls my name.

  “‘Bob-by,’ she says, real slow and soft, like it’s hard to say. ‘Bob-by.’

  “And when I turn around, she hobbles across the floor toward me so fast that I’m afraid she’ll fall, and she does fall, but I catch her by her skinny arms, and stand her up, and she squeezes me, and I hug her so tight I almost break her bony back.

  “I woulda killed ’im for her,” Jenson said.

  “I would’ve, too,” Aaron said, believing it at that moment.

  “Some women need …” Dominic spaced his words so that they were emphatic and cruel. “Some women need … a … good ass-whippin’.… But if I was Jenson … I would’ve killed ’im … without asking her.”

  Silence sealed the pact between them, and Aaron was sure he had discovered what it was made the night both so sad and so sweet: a bond of love greater than themselves, greater than the institute or any jail, a bond he wanted to share with all the boys, a bond which could bring a peaceful truce to all their differences and all their battles. For it seemed to him that he even knew what each boy was thinking about, dreaming about, even if he didn’t know his exact thoughts.

  He was with Jenson and his love for his lame mother. He was with Dominic and his love for a mother he also hated. He was with Barneyway, behind him, in the dormitory, alone, staring at the ceiling, thinking of a mother who didn’t visit him that day. He was with the Buzzer, sullen and black, shamed by his love for his mother, a mother that he, himself, had wronged. And he was with every boy in every dormitory whether standing or sitting or lying with his face buried in his pillow. He w
as with them all in their love for their mothers, their sweethearts, their sisters, and all the women who made up the best part of their jailed lives.

  Love seemed to hang in the night air like the leftover warmth from the hot day, settle like starlight over the forbidding watchtowers, the locked gates and high wire fences, the flat, white, iron-barred buildings. It seemed to revive the chirruping of the crickets, the flutter of insects, the rustle of animal noises, and fill Aaron with such a supreme, almost unbearable feeling that he turned to Dominic, needing proof that this feeling existed, that they shared this communion, and he found proof, suddenly, in the rose tattoo.

  The delicate petals of ink seemed to bloom with Dominic’s frustrated, unfulfilled love for his mother, and it struck Aaron that the rose was an emblem of this unfulfilled love, an ornamental, bittersweet emblem, an emblem which would never wilt but which would never really blossom, and an emblem which he would carry to the grave with him … carry all … the way … to his grave.…

  Part Six

  Lights Out

  Tooth-powder flecks polka-dotted the washbasin mirror and a reflection of Aaron, with his chin lifted, brushing his teeth, he rarely saw: his jaw was square, his upper lip as puffed as the Buzzer’s, his nostrils unsightly holes, his eyes chinked, and only the widow’s peak of his hair showed on the short bulb-lighted brow.

  He didn’t consider himself good looking, but the person in the mirror was a homely stranger, who was as disappointing and hard to look at, after the softening starlight of Sunday, as the hard-edged objects in the washroom and the institute buildings by daylight.

  His busy movements streaked the spots on the mirror, for he made an elaborate Monday-night ritual out of getting ready for bed, and he concentrated upon the act of brushing his teeth with such thorough precision that he whipped the tooth powder into a lather that foamed over his full lips and spilled down the corners of his mouth and dripped on his nightgown.

  It was as if he were unable to break the grueling routine of the day, a day dominated on the surface by Big Stoop, who called out the numbers of the morning count in a rasping voice and made an inspection out of it. Who marched them to the mess hall and set the pace with his long legs. Who stood between the food lines and checked each tray and no boy got more or less than standard servings. Who counted them in the dairy yard. Who was an overseer at work. Who patrolled the grounds like a traffic cop and whose station wagon intersected with the garbage wagon on every trip to the dump. Who made lunch a quiet meal. Who made school a study period. Who haunted the free hours of the late afternoon with his long shadow. Who regulated the evening hours with his rattling keys.

  Checkers clicked loudly on the board between Dominic and Jenson, and Aaron listened carefully for the Buzzer’s drawl or any commotion that would announce his entrance into the dormitory. For the Buzzer and Big Stoop had divided the day between them and nobody seemed to care. Dominic and Jenson acted as if there was nothing special about Sunday night, and whenever Aaron had mentioned the lawn scene to any of the other guys, they had laughed it off very lightly. There was only a light hum of conversation in the dormitory now and there had been nothing louder all day.

  Many of the guys were already in bed and most of the others were in their nightgowns, waiting for lights out. Only Barneyway was fully dressed, lying on his bed now, hiding his face behind a paperback book, hoping, Aaron knew, that the Buzzer, who had picked on him all day, would not bother him tonight.

  At the blast of that morning’s whistle, Aaron had heard iron bed legs scratch on concrete and a cry and Rattler’s throaty laugh; he sat up in bed to see the Buzzer standing over Barneyway’s rusty-springed bedframe and Barneyway climbing out from under his overturned mattress, pulling his legs free of the entangling blankets, one sheet trailing from him like a fallen white flag; and the lull-in-the-battle of Sunday night, which Aaron had hoped would become a permanent truce, had been broken on Monday morning.

  He stopped brushing, lifted his lips, exposed his teeth, studied them, and then carefully labored over the back teeth, the front teeth, teeth which were set on edge at breakfast by the presence of Big Stoop and the Buzzer. For the Buzzer was determined to prove what a bad duke he was while the man was standing over him, and he courteously poured the last muddy drizzle of the breakfast chocolate into Barneyway’s half-full cup. But he drank the chocolate down in big gulps, belched, and slapped the cup down in Barneyway’s tray, splashing dregs of chocolate onto Barneyway’s chin.

  Aaron cupped his mouth under the cold water tap, filled it, raised up, checked the doorway again and began to gargle, fish-mouthed, before the mirror, trying to keep in mind, although he was preoccupied with his present thoughts, Dominic’s advice in the morning darkness of the wagon shed:

  “There never was no buddy-up last night. Don’t you know that?” He had shaken the halter at Aaron. “Take care of yourself, man. Yourself! You can’t expect guys to stay buddies just because they were all homesick on Sunday night. The Buzzer was just bumkicked over his mother’s bad scene, that’s all. He ain’t no different now, and he ain’t about to be. Maybe even meaner. Wants to even things up. Don’t want his rep ruined. And Barneyway ain’t no different, either. Maybe more gutless.” He had poked Aaron in the chest. “I’m your friend. Jenson’s your friend. You’re our friend. We’re all friends. You know why? Because we’ll fight for each other, that’s why. Barneyway won’t even fight for himself.”

  Aaron spit the water out, rinsed his mouth, pushed the soft rubber stopper into the drain, turned the hot water tap on and ran it full power until the basin filled and a mist rose up. He lifted small palmfuls of water and patted his face gently with them, disappointed because the magic of Sunday night was gone, because feeling only came through touch and because it went no deeper than skin. He was disappointed, too, because Barneyway didn’t protest when the Buzzer shuffled around the table at lunch and switched his empty for Barneyway’s full tray. And he was disappointed and confused because his attempts to pray under the upraised swords of the angels afterward had all ended in daydreams of Judith, which had nothing to do with Barneyway or the Buzzer.

  The hot water ran out of the basin, and he wasn’t confused about that, he knew that. He then let the cold water run without plugging the drain, and when he splashed it over him, it made his skin feel tight. He knew that. He also knew that Barneyway’s cry in the schoolroom, immediately after Big Stoop had left, had tightened his skin, too, and that the teacher’s useless protest and his useless spitcurl had not relaxed it. But why had Barneyway hidden when he searched for him after school? Why did Barneyway snub him when he tried to offer support?

  The corded nap of the towel soaked up the dampness from the outside of his face and warmed it. He knew that. He also knew the towel did not warm the memory of the chill that had streaked over him at dinner when Barneyway had let the Buzzer pour milk into his bowl. But why had Barneyway then eaten the beans, puddle of milk and all? He had given up hope then that the memory of Sunday would or could change any of the guys. He had lost faith then that there even was a memory to anybody but himself, for Dominic was probably right: there never was no buddy-up. And Dominic had congratulated him when he did not go in search of Barneyway after dinner:

  “Now you’re solid. Now you’re taking care of yourself.”

  He braced himself against the solid door frame—something he could depend upon and believe in, as long as he didn’t try to see too much in it—and prepared to enter the dormitory, determined not to look at Barneyway, determined to take care of himself.

  But he glanced at Barneyway with the very first step, saw him pretend to be engrossed in his book, and in anger at the snub, he fixed his eyes on the checkerboard, on Dominic and Jenson hunched in T-shirts over it, and pattered with tiny slaps of his bare feet to his locker.

  The game gave him an excuse to snub the snub, to prove that he was solid, as solid as Dominic and as solid as Jenson, a guy who could take care of himself. And he watched the game ca
refully, concentrated upon it as if he were playing, and tried to keep himself from seeing or feeling anything except the actual moves of the game.

  Dominic took two triumphant hops with his black king over Jenson’s red men, lifted the red discs with exaggerated daintiness, shook them like dice by his ear, as if he really enjoyed their soft clicking, rocked back and, then, forward again from Jenson’s straight-arm in the chest. The friendly rivalry between the two solid buddies only made Aaron feel, more acutely, the confusion and disappointment in his own friendship with Barneyway; and he opened his locker, hoping to find a distraction there.

  It was as cold and dead and disappointing as the whole day had been. But he tried to occupy himself. He put his toothbrush on the metal shelf, exactly parallel with its edge. He hung the folded towel over the iron rung below the shelf. Then he straightened and evened the towel so that it neatly curtained the empty space between his dungaree shirt and pants, which hung on opposite hooks. Then he straightened his brogans. Then he pulled the gray socks out of the brogans and covered the laces with them. Then he searched for something else to do, anything to keep any thought of Barneyway from seeping into his mind. But he could see nothing which might occupy him, and he began to wonder what he was doing crouched down, hiding from a guy everybody else thought was pussy; and he realized that he was “thinking of Barneyway,” so he grabbed his brogans out of desperation, deciding to polish them as he picked them up and heard the screen door slam and Rattler make some comment.

  He kept his crouched position, the brogans in one hand, feigning indifference; but he knew that if the Buzzer was with Rattler, which he took for granted, Barneyway was going to suffer, and if Big Stoop came by, it would only be worse.

  He listened for the Buzzer’s voice, expecting Barneyway’s cry, but heard a strange sound, instead, and dropped the brogans and straightened up.

  The Buzzer’s blue shirt was caught on his wrist by a buttoned cuff, and it ruffled and whooped with wind as he swung it around and around with swooping, fancy gestures and danced on his toes by his bed in an awkward parody of a ballet dancer. He hopped and swayed from side to side, forward and backward, with sinuous twists of his swaybacked body, and, finally, snapped the shirt free, then bunched it and tossed it gently as a bouquet of flowers onto his bed, but held his position, arms extended, balanced on one leg, the other jutting out behind him, and got a loud laugh from the guys around him.