One pair of legs began to back up under the flatfooted, driving advance of the other pair.
Fists thumped solidly against a grunting body, squashed against soft facial skin, and the Buzzer landed on his back and his feet flew up and dropped, and he cradled his jaw with one hand and raised the other in surrender; and Aaron knew that Dominic had saved him from a stomping.
Aaron then, while still gasping for breath and still nauseated, slid out from under the bed and, holding his side, got to his feet, determined to stand above his enemies and enjoy the victory, regardless of the discomfort.
“Don’t ever mess with my boy while I’m here, or go-home or no go-home, I’ll kill you,” Dominic said, crouched above the Buzzer, who kept his palm up, his mouth shut, and stayed down.
Rattler sat on the floor between the beds, taking deep breaths, caressing his scratched throat; and Barneyway stood flattened against the wall, as if petrified with fear.
“You okay, little buddy?” Dominic asked, helping Aaron to his bed.
“Good. Real good,” Aaron replied, gratitude making him discount the pain, noticing how very, very fine Dominic’s features were for such a square and heavy head; and this seemed to mean something important, although he didn’t care to think about it.
“I feel real good. Those two rats are on the floor, and my side don’t even hurt.”
He straightened up to prove it and caught his breath.
“Don’t huh? You bad little mutha,” Dominic said. “Jumping the dude when you knew you’d have to fight the Buzzer if you started winning. Me with my go-home and all, too. You’re too bad to run with a punk like that.”
He pointed at Barneyway against the wall.
“Look at him? You took his battle for him twice now. Got hurt both times, and he still ain’t helped yuh. I just risked my go-home for you because I care what happens to you. That punk’s gonna get you killed when I leave, and he’ll live through it. Put him down, man. I’m telling you, Aaron. Put him down.”
Barneyway’s thin lips compressed into a straight line and he stopped trembling, moved away from the wall, pulled his bed into place, fixed its covers, and handed Rattler the towel, without once looking at Aaron.
“See what I mean?” Dominic said. “Look at the punk. He acts like nothing happened, and you might have got your teeth kicked out and some busted ribs, if I hadn’t been here.”
“Barneyway,” Aaron said, softly, too satisfied with the outcome of the fight to be angry, willing to listen to an explanation.
Barneyway smoothed the pillow with elaborate motions and Aaron raised his voice:
“Barneyway!”
Barneyway blocked the smoothed pillow very carefully and placed it exactly even with the head railing, totally ignoring Aaron, whose ribs began to ache at the busy movements which, committed in silence, admitted betrayal.
“Barneyway,” he said and remembered his threat in the hide-out.
“Why didn’t you help me, Barneyway?”
The pillow was smoothed, blocked, placed, and the motions had stopped, but there was no answer.
“Answer me!”
A stiff face turned slowly, finally, almost defiantly, toward Aaron, but did not speak.
“Why didn’t you help me?”
The luminous eyes were willed into indifference.
“You dirty coward! You yellow, rotten coward! We’ll never be friends again. Do you understand? Never! Never! I don’t care if every nigger in the institute screws you. Do you understand? Do you? Do you?”
The eyes never wavered, never blinked.
V
Thin, transparent clouds veiled the sun, streaked the sky, spread fleeting shadows over the scattered groups on the visitors’ lawn, diffused outlines, highlighted some persons and special groups, then blotted them out, and created such a wavering, sporadically patched, darkened and lightened landscape that Aaron concentrated only on the subdued groups by the office for Judith, when the compound gate clicked behind him.
He scanned the office area as he walked, expecting to see warmth and sunshine on a gray day where she stood, as if she were enveloped in her own aura, like the image that he had depended upon throughout the week, and could warm him with it. He wanted her to soften the disappointment that had settled over him after the fight. He wanted her to soothe the hurt of the betrayal. He wanted her to salve the bruises from the kicks, kicks that gave him an unhappy taste of what he could expect when Dominic went home, kicks that made her visit not just important but urgent.
The pastel green of her skirt and sweater was gray-toned from a distance and her hair seemed ash blond in the overcast light, which was a mild let-down he took in stride, with a warning to himself that he must not expect too much from her visit. But when he started up the hill, her hair looked so very different, he slowed his pace with a premonition and lowered his gaze to the pavement, trying to deaden his feelings to correspond to the asphalt’s dead color. He tried until he reached the top of the hill, then looked up, and let himself hurt.
A tattooed dot sat on the highest point of her cheekbone. A hard dot that drew all the rosy sweetness he had pictured in her cheeks into a point of blue corruption. A blatant dot on a little girl’s face that advertised a rogue beauty. A dot that served as the center of attraction for a wild halo of ringlets, that set off the sharply tipped breasts of a very tight sweater, that suited too well the short skirt with the side splits, which made her hips lumpy and exposed the bulky caps of her knees. A dot that could not prevent a diverting glance at her legs, now thickened and straightened by bobby-sox bunched into thick rolls at her ankles.
“Hi!” she said weakly.
“What did you do?” he asked, unable to return her greeting or her smile.
She fumbled with her purse and smoothed her skirt, and the blue of her eyes was plaintive when she looked up, almost pathetic, but sensitive, and ready to respond, as if she were both shamed and shielded by the tattoo.
“What did you do?” he asked again, unwilling to go near her; and when she fumbled with her purse again, he strode past her.
She caught up with him, but her tight skirt bound her knees, and she wobbled, taking two steps for every one of his, and grabbed his hand to slow him down, but he jerked it free with an angry snap of his wrist, and kept walking.
“Aaron,” she called, falling behind.
“Aaron, wait for me! Let me explain.”
He stopped by the chapel and waited, without watching her, until she had almost reached him, then turned, and saw the beauty mark again.
“It looks cheap,” he said, and the mark seemed to wither and draw all the color out of her face into its tiny blue peak.
“Look at you,” he said. “You look fat in that tight skirt. You wobble when you walk. And what did you do to your hair? You look like a pachuca. You’ll have a cross on your hand next.”
The pouting thrust of her lips was counterpointed and made more emphatic by the tattoo, but the tiny patch of skin, as transparent as cellophane, which covered it, made him angrier.
“What’d you do that for? You look … you look like a … you look …”
But the beauty mark disappeared with her lowered face and the additional disappointment of wild light-colored ringlets made him pause, then demand:
“Tell me what you did it for? Tell me! Tell me!” but with decreasing power, for her lifting eyes were a surprisingly calm blue, and her dispirited voice was almost glacial in tone:
“All the girls have them now, Aaron.”
“All what girls?” he asked, unable to believe she could defend herself.
“Our crowd.”
“That’s not saying anything.”
“You wear drapes, don’t you?”
“I’m a guy, Judith. You’re a girl. Do you fight? Do you go to jail?”
She clamped her upper lip between her teeth and pulled her nostrils down into distortion, but he persisted:
“My sister would rather die than tattoo herself.”
“Your sis
ter!” she said and her voice was a high, weird tone of resentment and dismay.
“My sister!” he repeated, striking her with it for fighting back, and she lowered her face again. But he was too disappointed to stop, too conscious of betrayal, and he asked, “You didn’t get permission to come, did you?”
She lifted her face with the question and bit her lip again. Her eyes appealed to him for a moment, then clouded over, and she shook her head once, stiffly, and did not look away.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, disappointed because she did not break down in some way under a charge that hurt him so badly; and he started back toward the gym, swearing he would never have faith in anyone again.
“Aaron,” she said, but he kept walking.
“Aaron,” she called, raising her voice. “Aaron, maybe I can take it off?”
He weakened but wouldn’t turn around, and she ran after him and grabbed his hand, and although he didn’t return her grip or comment on her suggestion, he didn’t try to pull free.
“Canned milk might take it off, Aaron. That’s what I heard.”
“It doesn’t—”
“I won’t dress like this anymore,” she interrupted. “I’ll wash my hair when I get home and set it like I used to. I’ll—”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said again, but more weakly and stopped by the gym ramp.
“Aaron, I’m sorry that I put it on.”
“I just said—”
“I thought you’d like it, Aaron,” she said.
And he let his arm relax. And he let himself look past the tattoo. He let himself see the little girl’s pure blue eyes. He let himself see the cherry he knew in those chippy’s clothes, the cherry he had gone to jail a first time for, who had written to him this time since his arrest, who had come to see him a second time without permission, and he said, regretting it as he said it, knowing it would only lead to more disappointment:
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
“I did it after an argument with Mom. She wouldn’t let me come. She said she’d never let me come. She said—”
“Judith! Don’t explain! You’re here!” he said, trying to stop her, for her appearance was completely transformed by his admiration, and the tattoo was now a badge she could be proud of, a mark of distinction, of guts. But the alteration followed too swiftly upon and was too contradictory to the cherry he had seen with the previous glance and confused him. And he waved his hand at her, as if to dismiss her and her hair-do and her tight skirt and her bobby sox, and he didn’t know what he thought of her.
“It’s not just the tattoo or the way you look.”
“What else did I—”
“It’s not the tattoo! It’s not you!” he said, irritably, blaming her for making things so complicated and confusing.
“You’re sure?” she asked.
“I’m sure,” he said and turned his back on her again and stared out over the visitors’ lawn.
“You won’t be here long, Aaron,” she said, after a quiet pause, and slipped her hand into his. “Keep being good and you’ll get to go home. You will. I know it.”
“Good?” he said and a glimpse of her hair set off a wave of resentment in him.
“Good?” he repeated and turned so he couldn’t see any part of her.
“Just be good and it won’t be long.”
“Good?” he said again and the word had a bad taste. He wrung his fingers free of hers and stared over the lawn again, seeing, without noticing, the small number of family groups sitting in scattered picnic circles. Good seemed especially ironic coming from a girl who had tattooed herself, who seemed a good example of Dominic’s advice, and he wondered what Dominic would say about her beauty mark: a bitch? a lay?
“What else is wrong, Aaron?”
“I-can’t-be-good,” he said, meaning to mock her but heard a spoiled-brat sound instead, which irritated him because he felt it could be justified.
“Why can’t you?” she asked, and she seemed to hover skin-close without touching him, without interfering with an answer.
“It’s not for schoolgirls to hear,” he said, being cruel but truthful, and her beauty mark faded into inconsequence next to Barneyway’s rape.
“Why not? I’ve seen the guys fight. I’ve seen them stomp,” she said, and he started to deny he could tell her again, although she had guessed well, when he saw Rattler sitting on a bench with an old woman dressed completely in black, and he said, excitedly:
“That’s why! See that skinny rat sitting with that old lady? That’s why I can’t be good.”
“The Mexican woman with the shawl over her head?”
“That’s why!” Aaron said, triumphantly, as if no further explanation were needed, and turned to face her as she leaned around him to see better and asked, with disbelief:
“Does he have a cross tattooed between his eyes?” but added with Aaron’s nod: “He seems awfully quiet and behaved with her. Why is he keeping you from being good?”
“He just does,” Aaron said, disliking the weak evasion in his answer but unhappy over her failure to accept his word without an explanation; and because he couldn’t think of a way to explain what was really wrong and justify his accusation without embarrassing both of them, he repeated, feeling like a martyr: “He just does, that’s all.”
“Come on,” she said, “let’s go sit on the chapel lawn there and talk.”
“Not there,” he said, quickly, wanting to respond to this familiar Judith, who could act like a full-grown woman at critical moments, but he dreaded the chapel with its dead-wood Christ.
“I’d rather sit on that bench by the gym,” he said and led her up the ramp, trying to think of some way to explain without mentioning the filthy details. But on the bench, it was her tattoo which kept him from speaking because he couldn’t relate her motherly concern with its brazen sexuality.
She, herself, guessed what was wrong, for she began to gaze at the concrete ramp before her as if she were interested in how the sun, which had pierced the veil of clouds, glistened upon it, and this gave him an opportunity to start.
“You know Barneyway’s in my dorm, right?”
He paused for she began to look at him again, and he had to look away in order to continue.
“Well, he got himself beat up by that big colored guy, called the Buzzer, whose mother put on that wild show last Sunday. You know,” he said and stopped again, remembering his own hysteria.
“Well, the Buzzer hangs around with that tattooed guy and they both pick on Barneyway, and the colored guy, he even … He even.…”
“Yes,” she said, peering closely at him, trying to keep him from stopping, but distracting him with the tattoo and he couldn’t speak again until she had leaned back.
“He … he beat him up real bad,” he said, skipping that untellable part, the worst part, too bad and unbelievable for her ears, something he wouldn’t have quite believed himself before the institute.
“Poor Barneyway,” she said. “Poor guy.”
“You seen the guy,” Aaron said, getting excited by her response. “You seen how big he is, and he’s a dog-bully, too. I fought that dirty Mexican rat with the cross over Barneyway, and the colored guy jumped me. My ribs and back still ache where he kicked me.”
“They tried to stomp you?” she asked, turning a full face toward him, forgetting her tattoo.
“Tried, but that’s okay,” he said, pleased by her concern, pleased because the victory would sound better, more heroic, when she had heard how he suffered first. “A buddy of mine, Dominic, great guy, tough, tough guy, jumped in and made him quit, and I almost killed that rat on the bench.”
“No, Aaron, don’t talk about stomping or killing. Be good.”
She pulled his hand into her lap and began stroking his knuckles.
“Don’t mess yourself up, Aaron. Stay away from them now. With your friend to help you, you don’t have to worry. Be good.”
“Dominic’s leaving and when
he does, they’re gonna try and get me. They’re gonna get me,” he said, melodramatically, and saying it gave him strength, but it was also an appeal for consolation, for he did not expect advice nor a solution from her. He only wanted the sympathy which the tiny beige freckles sprinkled across her nose seemed to promise, in spite of the distracting blue dot.
“You’re giving up,” she said and pressed his hand against her cheek, unconsciously covering the beauty mark, and he could feel her jaw move and the vibration of her voice in his knuckles when she spoke. “You can’t quit like this. The Aaron I know will find something to do about it. You go tell that big guard. He’ll do something about it for you.”
“That big guard beat me and Barneyway up just a day before I fought that rat. That’s what’s wrong,” he said and his voice squeaked with a self-pitying rush of words. “There’s nothing I can do. I can’t beat those two guys myself. I got no one to help me after Dominic leaves. I can’t tell. That would make me a fink and, besides, he wouldn’t believe me. And I can’t run away. That’s trouble even if I get away.”
“Aaron, Aaron,” she said, but he started again.
“I can’t win if I fight. I get in trouble if I fight. Barneyway won’t even help. I fought those two guys over him and it was all for nothing. I told him I’d stick by him and I had to break my Mother’s Honor because he let me do it for him. He didn’t even help me when they jumped me. I lost a friend. I broke my word. I got beat up for nothing twice. There’s nothing I can do—nothing, not a thing. How can I be good? Good’s a joke.…
“Joke,” he said, for he had heard the whine in his voice.
“Joke,” he said again and tried to laugh, but only hacked.
“Aaron, listen to me. I don’t know what to do. I really don’t. But I do know that you’ve got your family and they care and they can do something. I don’t know what, but they can. And you can write to me. I’ll get the letters, don’t worry. I’ll do anything you want. You ask me. But don’t give up trying to be good. I’ll help you, Aaron. You’re not alone. I’ll prove that you’re not. I’ll get rid of this beauty mark. I’ll.… Believe me,” she said and sucked in her breath and squeezed his hand until her finger tips reddened and rimmed white, suffering with such tenderness for him that he resisted an urge to console her in order to prolong it; and he wished that Dominic or some of the guys, even the Buzzer, especially the Buzzer, could see her, could see how much he was cared for by a girl, by a pretty girl with a beauty mark, for she was pretty, even with the beauty mark.
Tattoo the Wicked Cross Page 19
