Tattoo the Wicked Cross
Page 32
Still, in spite of his studied disinterest, he often caught himself listening to and trying to understand the muffled voices behind the varnished door; and approaching footsteps made him tense, and he stiffened into a military posture when he heard the sound of keys, only to slump into a question mark when the noises passed, disappointed because he stayed locked in the solitude of the chamber and relieved because he didn’t have to cross the threshold of the doorway and begin the excruciating experience of the hearing.
He scraped a brogan over the tiles with a small but certain satisfaction. For it was an inmate’s brogan instead of a dress shoe because he had refused to put on the new suit and shoes that Nora had brought him. He had also refused to do more than let her embrace him, and although she had bound his arms so tightly to his sides that he could smell the broadcloth of her suit, he had refused to let her sniffling weaken him into crying.
He had refused to tell John or Stanley or his father or the lawyer, as well as the sheriff, what had happened, too, and he had torn Judith’s letter up, unread, and had flushed it down the toilet, had watched how its ragged edges had lighted on the enameled pool, how the lined paper had dampened and darkened and smeared with ink before disappearing in a whirl of suction and crashing water.
Footsteps near the door made his hands clammy.
Keys!
He sat up and held his breath as a key scratched in the keyhole, rattled for position, settled with a scrape into place, and turned with a heavy click.
Door panels vibrated.
Voices, more than murmurs, less than normal speech.
The door knob gave a small squeaking turn and the varnished panels gave way to a fat bailiff in a blue uniform, and Aaron set his feet to stand up. But the round face turned away, spoke again, turned back, and announced, curtly:
“Visitor,” and Judith stepped through the doorway.
Sun-bleached hair framed a plump tanned oval, on which the beauty mark looked less dark and conspicuous but which was hesitant with light intimations of freckles and doubt. Her hands were clasped self-consciously at the midriff of her charcoal dress, and the heavy strands of her light-brown lashes veiled her eyes.
The door shut behind her and he heard a key lock it, but he made no attempt to rise from the bench, and she seemed afraid to move closer.
Finally, she took one step, hesitated in a walking position for a moment, as if making sure the floor was safe before bringing the second patent leather slipper even with the first, and said, “John says that there’s a chance if … if …” then added:
“We’re all with you, Aaron.… I’m with you, too.”
But she said it, thickly, as if her throat were coated with phlegm, and looked evasively into the blind corners of the chamber.
“John says.… He says.…”
She stepped closer, while her words echoed as loud as shouts in the boxed chamber, deafening him, weakening him; and her broad starched collar rose noticeably with her breasts, as she twisted her clasped hands.
“John says that if you’ll only co-operate, the case can be transferred to juvenile court, where you’ll get Youth Authority, and—”
“And they’ll send me to a state reform school instead of San Quentin until I’m twenty-one, and then send me to San Quentin,” he said, huskily, hating her for helping them, but using the hate to put himself beyond her pleas.
“No, John says—”
“John sent you, didn’t he? He told you to write, didn’t he? I wondered how I got a letter so quick,” he said and rejoiced at the rude burn of her tanned cheeks.
“Well, let me tell you something. I’ll get Youth Authority, anyway, because of my age. And let me tell you something else. Because of my age, they can’t put me in Que.”
“Que?”
“San Quentin, and let me tell you something else. They can’t snuff me, either.”
“Snuff you?” she asked.
“Gas me, baby! They can’t give me the gas chamber. And let me tell you something else,” he said, but his throat was dry and he had to swallow before he could continue.
“Do you know that I’ve got a great rep now? Do you know that all the guys in the DT come around to my isolation cell and talk to me through the window? Do you know that all the guys in Whittier and Preston have heard about me and are hoping that I’ll get sent to their joints? Do you know—”
His lips twisted and his cheek flickered as he struggled to say more, but her mouth sagged and her lower teeth showed as if she might cry, and a disturbing and weakening pity started rising in him, but keys jangled and one scraped and rattled in the lock and saved him, and he shouted at her:
“Do you know that I’m Big Time now? That nobody will mess with a killer? Do you know that no matter where I go, I’m going to do Good Time? Good Time? Good—Good—Good—”
He stuttered as she withdrew in revulsion, for a facial expression as cynical as Dominic’s, which actually made her look like Dominic, centered in her tattoo, and disconcerted him.
But when he stopped, her eyes suddenly widened and softened, and her mouth fell open in a silent sensual exclamatory cry of pity, a cry punctuated by the beauty of the mark.
But he shut her mouth with a final shout of “Good Time!” and his sentence ended with the cynical period of her dot.
But the vibration of the opening door caused it to tremble with beauty again.
And then tighten as he stood at attention.
Then softly fade into her tan with his first faltering step.
Then pinch and harden on her face as he marched to her and past her.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1967 by Floyd Salas
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2526-3
The Permanent Press
4170 Noyac Road
Sag Harbor, NY 11963
www.thepermanentpress.com
Distributed by Open Road Distribution
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com