Tattoo the Wicked Cross

by Salas, Floyd;

  He ate seconds at every meal, and he had a tug-o-war over the milk pitcher with a guy at lunch and made such a scene out of it that the guy let go. But the Buzzer, who, as cadet captain, could have stopped it, said nothing; and everyone at the table was astonished; and Aaron began to care less about getting the Buzzer than doing his time like a duke.

  After dinner, he joined Skip and a crowd of boys on their way to the baseball field, just for a good time and the excitement of an overtime game, as their compound teams were deadlocked.

  He noticed from his seat on the lowest bleacher that a lot of guys wore dungaree jackets, although the sun was an hour from setting. And, since even the cool air was a source of contentment to him, he felt contempt for them. He then felt contempt for Barneyway, who had to sit by himself on the top bleacher. And he felt contempt for the Buzzer, who trotted in so awkwardly from right field, kicking up puffs of dust with his heels, cussing under his breath because he had dropped a pop fly, then rudely tossed his glove at the feet of the colored fielder from Skip’s team, who had been waiting for it, and replied:

  “I don’ give uh good gaw-damnn,” when the kid mumbled something about the glove to him.

  Aaron’s contempt was so great that he watched the Buzzer stand before the bleacher and complain: “Ain’t there no gawdamnn room on this here bench for a player?” then threaten: “Move ovah an’ make room, or I make room,” without realizing the Buzzer meant him until the black hand flipped at him, as if to shoo him away.

  His contempt was so great that he was more astounded than insulted, and he had to recover from his surprise before he realized that his chance had finally come, then, conscious of the blade taped to his shin, the power that was his power, he hopped off the bleacher, and said evenly, “Start making any time, Buzzer.”

  He said it without raising his voice above a speaking level, calmed by the steely confidence of the blade, by the chance to use it in front of guys from two compounds, the chance to finish the Buzzer with an underhanded swipe to the guts, drop him to the ground with a bleeding belly, and be a duke forever afterwards.

  Purple flamed into an amazed red on the wet underside of a hanging lip. Black eyes blurred with doubt and indecision, as if the stalemate on Friday night and Aaron’s strange behavior at lockup were fresh in the Buzzer’s mind. Angry lines creased the black face at being called by such a little guy in front of so many guys and because, Aaron knew, the Buzzer thought he could kill the little guy with his fists, not just whip him, but the wonder stayed in the mouth and eyes, and waiting seemed to cool the anger.

  “The man be here in a se-con’. You safe out in the open, paddy boy. But you be dead when I get you ass alone.”

  “Pick your best shot,” Aaron replied as the Buzzer sat down; and thrilled by the uplifted faces of awe and respect, more determined than ever to make the Buzzer go now, now that he felt like going and was sure he could win, he was prompted by the sight of the first batter standing away from the plate, watching through the wire backstop, bat hanging loose in his hand, to push his first true victory over his enemy to its limits; and curling his lips in a determined effort to copy Dominic’s snarl, he said, “Any … time … punk!”

  The Buzzer’s head snapped around and sent a shiver over him, but no reply disturbed the warming murmur of wonder and praise which followed; and when he sat down on the wooden bleacher, he felt like a real duke on a real throne, and he felt like one throughout the game, throughout a glorious lockup, throughout the following and very sunny day, and until lockup time the next evening, when Skip, his face webbed by the shadow of iron links from the compound gate, argued:

  “I know how yuh feel about it, Aaron. But lots of guys are starting to say you’re too wise. You already been nicknamed ‘Big Man.’”

  Moths fluttered and thumped against the protective cage of the porch light behind Aaron, and he was grateful that the boys who lingered in front of the open doors of their dormitories and as silhouettes along the lamp-yellow walls of the porch could not hear Skip.

  “Do you think I’m a wise guy?” he asked, remembering that he had made sarcastic remarks to the hypocritical compliments of the now flattering boys and that he had turned down Barneyway’s attempts at friendship with a mighty word: punk! But no one had complained to his face. They had even laughed at his remarks as if they were clever jokes.

  “Do you?” he insisted.

  “No,” Skip said. “I don’t think so at all.”

  “Did any of these guys who are so free with their complaints now try to help me when I needed it? Answer that!”

  “Nooooo,” Skip admitted.

  “Well, if they don’t like the way I’m acting, let any of ’um try and do something about it,” Aaron said, swinging the gate open, and its webbed shadow shifted and narrowed and ran off Skip’s flat face. “You know I ain’t no fathead, Skip, and you know I consider you my only buddy.”

  “Okay, man,” Skip said, backing away and waving good-by. “Don’t let the cat mess with you tonight, either.”

  Aaron crossed the courtyard with a bouncing step, soothed by Skip’s concession until he reached the porch, where he stopped, jammed his hands into the pockets of his dungaree coat, turned away from the screen door, and began to pace about, reluctant to face Barneyway now, and bothered by his own excessive fondling of the blade the last two nights, although he hadn’t prayed since Big Stoop had slapped him.

  He could tell by the indentations ground into the steel what part of the blade he was touching, and he had squeezed the soft taped handle until it had hardened into grooves and ridges which fit the fingers of his right hand. He had also fallen asleep gripping it both nights and had dreamed of carrying it aloft through the dormitory and all over the institute grounds like a crusader’s sword. Duke, bad duke, of the whole institute.

  The tape edges began to irritate him, too, for they made his leg itch; and as he bent over to scratch it, he thought of the consequences he risked by carrying the blade: the hole, more time, Youth Authority, and all three if he used it; and he didn’t want to use it anymore. For he had what he wanted: the right to do his own time, to do good time and—the way he felt now—even great time. Something he wouldn’t give up for anybody, not even … Judith?

  He tried to picture her expression if she discovered he had the blade, then if he stabbed the Buzzer. He pondered whether it would be one of awe or sadness or, maybe, one of disgust for a fool. But he saw only the dot on her cheekbone and saw it as proof that he had to be strong. For he now believed that the beauty mark looked sharp on her and gave strength to her plump face, and he tapped his chest with his fist and entered the dormitory, too pleased with the safety the blade gave him to allow himself to worry any longer, but faltered at the first sight of the pink envelope lying upon his bed and approached it cautiously.

  The return address meant nothing to him and he didn’t bother to read it, for he knew the letter was from Judith. But he studied his own name under the light bulb, while trying to prepare himself for the “be good” advice he expected to find in the letter.

  “Aaron D’Aragon” looked strange in another person’s handwriting. The letters seemed so big and bold for the soft pink background of the paper, and he had to check the dorm and satisfy himself that everything was quiet, that most of the guys were busy with their own mail before he could get the nerve to slide the pages out of the envelope and snap them open.

  Dear Aaron,

  I tried to write as soon as I got home from the visit, but the letter was so bad that I kept it a whole week, trying to make up my mind to send it, and now I’ve decided to write it over again. All the way back on the bus I thought about how to tell you how sorry I was for what I did to my face. I was sorry because you didn’t like it. I still don’t know why I did it, but I want to tell you how I did it anyway, just like you told me things last weekend.

  The first paragraph was such a relief that he sat back against his pillow to finish the letter, with no more than a smug glanc
e at Barneyway, who had a letter of his own.

  I got home so early the day of the first visit that Mom thought I had come straight home from the show, and she was in such a good mood about it Monday morning that she made my breakfast for me. And I made the mistake of asking her if I could visit you. Then she started yelling at me and slamming the plates down and stomping back and forth in her bathrobe and making such a scene that she burned the toast, and then started blaming me for that, too. And she got me so mad that I left without finishing my breakfast.

  All the girls were across the street from school at Pop’s Place and one of them had the idea of cutting school to make me feel better. We walked around until I was sure Mom had gone to work. Then we went to my house. We listened to music in the morning but after lunch we got pretty bored and we started talking about different girls and the way they dressed and that. And, I don’t know how, but pretty soon there we were with a bottle of India ink and some needles.

  I did mine myself. I kept telling myself that it would just be a little one and that I’d hardly be able to notice it, and I put a drop of ink on my cheek and started poking the skin. It only took a couple of minutes and it barely bled, but afterwards, the skin around it turned all puffy and white. We compared them but you couldn’t tell what they really looked like. So we covered them up with band-aids and we were all scared but we all felt like buddies.

  Mom asked me why I had the band-aid on that night and I told her I had a pimple, and she was still in a huff about breakfast and didn’t question me. But the next day she got suspicious and tore the band-aid off and the scab with it, and we had another big argument. I didn’t really care about the argument. I was more disappointed because the beauty mark was too big and was blue instead of black. I felt better though because all the girls had them, and in a couple of days I was even sort of proud, until you saw it.

  But Mom went on another one right away. She was still on it when I went to see you. There were beer cans all over the house, and I guess you know the way it must have smelled.

  But I don’t really care what she thinks, Aaron. I care what you think. So, I’ve made up my mind to save up my allowance and get it taken off by a doctor. And I’m going to try and get along with her so she’ll give me permission to go see you. I’m going to do two things for you, and I want you to do one thing for me. Don’t let those boys you told me about get you in trouble, that’s all. Let’s be good together, Aaron. And you can get out soon and we can start going together.

  Promise me, and I already promise.

  Love,

  JUDITH.

  He folded the pages with his promise, proud of the guts it took to put on the tattoo, which in a way was for him, and very proud of her promise to take it off, which was all for him. She was both and he could be both. For he had the blade and he had her, and he slipped the pages back in the envelope and slipped the envelope into his left breast pocket, and he thought of the letter until he went to sleep and dreamed of it in his sleep and thought of it before anything else when he awoke the next morning, determined to be as good as his promise.

  With his eyes still closed, his head a wild, furred animal under the covers, he burrowed under the pillow until he touched the letter, pinched it between his fingers, dragged it carefully out, recited by memory those so tiny and important words:

  “Let’s be good together, Aaron,” revived his confidence that he could do both, because he had both, the letter and the blade, then focused his eyes upon his name, and woke up, truly, to window frames of morning sunlight on the outside wall and a dorm full of sleepy tousle-haired boys, who busied themselves at get-up tasks.

  “Let’s be good together, Aaron,” he mumbled and sat up, set the letter on the pillow, opened his locker without a screech, slipped his dungaree pants and his cotton shorts off the hook without snagging them on it, pulled them under the covers and put them on without a mistake, even speeding up the ritual of dressing that he had followed for two mornings now, because the blade could be seen below the hem of the nightgown.

  “Let’s be good together, Aaron,” he whispered, patted the blade, scratched the binding tape, caressed the letter, stood on the cold concrete without a shiver, slipped the nightgown off in a single bending, pulling movement, hung it up without looking, fit his T-shirt on like a skin, slid his arm through his shirt sleeve while he lifted the shirt out of the locker, tucked the shirt into his pants while he buttoned it, bent down for his shoes and socks, and repeated:

  “Let’s be good together, Aaron.”

  “Let’s be good together, Aaron,” he said again, his mind full of his nighttime prayers, for he had said his rosary twice for the promise, and included every person he knew, including the Buzzer and Rattler, in the requested blessing. His knees had not hurt. His back had not ached. His heart had swelled with pride and enthusiasm, for he would do both. He could do both.

  He flexed his calf muscle, strained the tape bands, set the letter on top of the locker, fixed his bed with brisk, efficient blanket-snapping movements, caressed the letter with a swipe of his palm, slid it into his left breast pocket, and marched to the washroom.

  Green sparked eyes stared alertly back at him from the washbasin mirror. There was no morning puffiness to them, and his sallow complexion was also overtoned by a healthy tan. He took a deep breath, held it, prepared to duck his face into the washbasin water, when the Buzzer entered, and the breath puffed into a cloud of moisture on the mirror.

  “Here, take this one,” he heard himself say. “It’s all ready.”

  He stepped back. He saw his own hand offer the washbasin, and he heard himself insist:

  “No. Go ahead. Take it. Take it.”

  He saw the gold teeth glint with awe, and he even felt sympathy for the black eyes, crusted with twists of sleep in the corners, that shimmered with disbelief, and for the confused voice that mumbled an embarrassed thanks before the Buzzer obeyed and bent over the basin; and he felt the same sympathy, touched with pride, at count, when he responded to the Buzzer’s command with such a military snap to attention that the man had to order the disconcerted Buzzer to come to attention himself.

  He marched through the day with an exhilarated step, with her tattooed beauty mark as a sign of her guts and her letter in his pocket as a sign of her love, and his blade taped to his shin. He went out of his way to be kind to the Buzzer. He offered him the chocolate pitcher at breakfast, and he filled his cup for him at lunch. He told him the answers to math problems in class and he cheered for him at the baseball field, he helped him clean the dorm and he repeated the command for dinner count to make the stragglers fall in line. At lockup, he even sat down on the Buzzer’s bed and tried to join the conversation.

  But the black creased skin fold was purposely, almost shyly, turned to him to avert the black face; and the benevolence which flooded his limbs with energy was disturbed by a premonition, like an undercurrent of fatigue, that his joy could not last, that the Buzzer would come to some decision about the confusing kindness and there would be trouble, but it was a premonition that he had to deny or taint and ruin his state of grace.

  Guffaws accompanied sly comments about him all the next day, beginning with breakfast, when the chocolate pitcher was passed around the table and kept away from him. At noon count, the guys kept shifting the line, kept him out of formation, and got him reprimanded. He had to eat his lunch without salt, and every request was answered by a snicker. He went to the chapel afterwards, where he tried to magnify the beauty mark and pray away his bitterness. But wisecracks from the desks at the back of the schoolroom became outright threats before class was over, and the Buzzer shoved him out of line on leaving, and the state of grace was then forgotten in worry over survival without trouble: without the blade. The cackling laughter in the gym angered as well as worried him, too; but Rattler’s cry of “kiss-ass” as he left, trying to control his temper, convinced him that his survival was impossible without trouble, nor worth it. And by the time he reached the com
pound gate he was ready to give somebody a lesson with his blade, ready to prove that there was a difference between kindness and fear; and cussing to himself, he forgot to close the dormitory door, then heard and purposely ignored the Buzzer’s command to close it.

  The center of his back was as sensitive as the transparent mass of a jellyfish, and his body bristled with anticipation as he marched by the tense boys, savoring the surprise he was going to pull, letting the Buzzer kindle his anger to a point past any possible fear; although he gazed on the slicing planes of sun and shadow before him, he felt as if he could see the Buzzer stand behind him and speak the threat:

  “Peoples here born in barns, need some schooo-lin’, an’ I gonna be the tee-cha, an’ maybe I give uh lesson ri-ight now!”

  Aaron stopped in a square of sunlight, sunlight which encased the cold lucid anger within him in mild heat, sunlight which belied the anger as the attempts at goodness had belied his confidence and will, as his hesitation now belied his determination to fight, to forget now about get-alongs and concentrate on strong-arms and get-bys, to be cold if that was all that counted, colder than the Buzzer, as cold as his blade, and he spun slowly around, balanced on his toes, and spoke in a sharp-pitched, stylized voice:

  “Don’t nobody signify nothin’ no time about me! Don’t say nothin’ no time and not right now! Come on, bad actor, if you think you want to, think you’re big and bad! Come on. I’ve got an equalizer that will even all the odds!”

  But a beckoning wave of his arm made the Buzzer falter, slow, and stop, made his enemy hesitate with confusion; for Aaron’s anger, once released, now burst out of him, exploded. His head felt hot and light. Nothing mattered but his grievance.

  “I’m not afraid to get hurt or even killed, Buzzer. I’m not going to let nobody push me around. Not nobody.”

  The sun seemed to spotlight him and dramatize his speech and actions.