Until the guard’s voice intervened: “Hey you, out.”
She blushed furiously, which deepened the beauty of her dusky skin.
“My first day here,” she apologized, a gentle accent softening her words.
As the guard waved her away, her eyes sought Eric once more. A pang tore at his heart, longing overwhelmed him. Did he see longing in her eyes as well? He found Sonny Boy at his side, leering: “Hey, the Ice Man’s falling in love.” Eric gave him a withering look and Sonny Boy faded away. Eric realized for the first time that he had picked up a nickname like everyone else: Ice Man.
That night her face appeared before him when he closed his eyes. That low sultry voice echoed in his ears. Even in the drab facility uniform, she had been vibrant in her beauty, a contrast to the other girls in the place. She made him nostalgic for places he’d never known, calling to his mind sun-baked squares, cobblestoned courtyards, a hacienda sleeping in the shadows. That was the moment she became the Señorita for him.
He caught sight of her occasionally in the next few days, glimpses from his window as she strolled to the ball field, as she left the gym, always the last one to depart. He lingered in the cafeteria after the cleanup, hoping to see her again. Once or twice she entered but always with a group of girls, although she looked his way once in a while and their eyes spoke to each other. He turned away, the pulse in his temple beating wildly.
The old longings were more intense than ever before. He tossed in his bed at night, spent restless moments pacing his cell. He was scheduled to be released soon. But how long would she be a prisoner here? He hoped it would not be long—sentences could be as short as a few weeks, even less if a prisoner was simply awaiting an appearance in court.
He pondered taking steps to get in touch with her. Communication between prisoners was always possible through a system of messages left at certain locations, like the cafeteria or the gym. A trustee known as the Distributor collected and delivered messages. For a price, of course. The price was whatever prisoners could afford, money or cigarettes or an exchange of merchandise, like porno magazines or jewelry. The Distributor was quick-talking and quick-walking, everything about him quick, especially his hands while making the exchanges. He also could arrange furtive meetings, although these were risky, with prices few prisoners could afford, and tough disciplinary action if discovered.
Although he still did not dream, he’d wake up suddenly, his mind full of the sight of her—that long hair, the slim, slender throat. He’d feel his fingers trembling, as if from an old disease. He knew the disease, sweet and precious, that had been muted and slumbering these past three years. He resisted, however, the thought of communicating with her. He was afraid of what would happen if they met, even in this place. And his long-range plans would fall apart. Patience, he told himself, patience.
His patience ran out three days later. He’d crossed off another day on the calendar, nine days remaining in his sentence. Stepping out of his room, he was startled to see Sonny Boy standing at the end of the corridor. Prisoners were free to wander the hallways and recreation areas at certain times of the day, but no one ever came near Eric. He discouraged visitors, always kept himself aloof, turned off gestures of friendship with a cold, calculating look.
Sonny Boy stood alone down near the red exit sign, his back to Eric, the door half opened, his shoulders hunched forward as he looked outside. Was Sonny Boy spying on someone? Or waiting for another prisoner to come along? A secret rendezvous?
Fingers trembling, Eric glided cautiously toward Sonny Boy, his sneakers noiseless on the hardwood floor. Was tenderness possible with someone other than a girl? Could the need that kept him awake at night be fulfilled in another way? Crazy, crazy, he told himself as he approached Sonny Boy. I won’t do it. But kept getting closer, closer.
Eric was upon Sonny Boy the way a cat pounces on a mouse. Hands around his throat, the smell of Sonny Boy, sweat and aftershave in his nostrils. Although Sonny Boy was small and thin, he showed surprising strength as he squirmed and struggled, twisting and turning, the strange sounds of survival coming from his throat. Yet Eric took his time, letting him struggle, exulting in this contact, at last, with flesh and bone.
As Sonny Boy went limp in his arms, Eric realized the futility of what he was doing. There was no intimacy in this act, no tenderness at all. The horror of what would happen to him if Sonny Boy should die swept over him as he looked down at the boy’s still face. Relieved, he saw his eyes fluttering a bit. He placed his hand over Sonny Boy’s eyes, hoping that he would not be recognized.
As Sonny Boy began to struggle again, trying to rise to his feet, letting out a stream of the swear words Eric hated, that terrible F word flying out with spittle from his mouth, Eric found a way out of this situation. “Leave Sweet Lefty alone,” he whispered into Sonny Boy’s ear. Repeated the words so that there would be no mistaking them. “Leave Sweet Lefty alone.” A stroke of genius, Eric told himself, providing a motive for the attack other than the real one. “Understand?” Eric asked, voice hoarse and strained.
Sonny Boy nodded, then went limp once more in Eric’s arms. Eric cradled him gently. Looked around: no one in sight. He closed the door. He checked Sonny Boy’s pulse, gratified to feel its feeble movement.
There were no repercussions from the assault. Business as usual in the classrooms, at mealtimes in the cafeteria, the athletic field and gym. Eric saw the Señorita two days in succession but she did not look his way. He noticed that Sonny Boy and Sweet Lefty did not come into contact with each other, sat at different tables at mealtimes. At the end of the midday meal three days later, he saw Sonny Boy summon a fat, slow-moving kid called the Bulk to his table. He indicated that the Bulk should return his tray to the service table. Which the Bulk did eagerly, moving quickly despite the weight he carried.
The next day, Sweet Lefty Stanton brushed by Eric as they walked to the cafeteria. “I owe you one, Ice Man,” he drawled.
Watch your step.
That’s what Sweet Lefty had written in the note. Payback time. Eric thought immediately of Lieutenant Proctor, knowing now why he had not accepted Friday as the day of Eric’s release. Because he intended to prevent Eric from leaving.
Eric looked at the calendar. Three days to go. Three days to get through, to be on his guard. He had memorized Sweet Lefty’s note, and he ran the words through his mind. Don’t be provoked. Which meant someone would try to provoke him. His sentence would be extended and his freedom denied if he responded to provocation and got into trouble as a result. If more trouble followed—incidents in a facility could quickly escalate—he could be transferred, when he reached eighteen, to an adult institution. Which meant state prison, a chilling prospect.
At dinnertime that evening, as he stood in line, holding his tray with his utensils on it, he was pushed from behind. A slight push, a nudge. His first instinct was to turn around and push back. But he did neither. The gentle push on his back reverberated throughout his body, reminding him that he had hardly been touched by another person in his years at the facility.
He braced himself, prepared for another nudge, knowing that this is what Sweet Lefty meant by being provoked. Hunching his shoulders, he shuffled forward and received a real push this time, sending him against Dude Man, ahead of him in line. Dude Man turned, staring at Eric in mild disbelief. Dude Man was a sleek and elegant Hispanic, quick to laugh and smile, never in trouble.
“Hey, man,” he said. “Whass goin’ on? You drunk or somethin’?”
“Sorry,” Eric muttered, rearranging the utensils on his tray.
“Thass awright, man,” Dude Man said, shrugging, facing forward again.
A push this time caught Eric by surprise with its intensity. A foot was shoved between his legs and sent him crashing to the floor, the tray clattering on the tile, the utensils scattering away.
Grateful for Sweet Lefty’s warning, Eric kept himself in check, curbing his impulse to rise to his feet and strike back at his attac
ker. Instead, he remained on his knees, reaching for the knife and fork, the spoon out of sight. At that instant he was kicked in the spine, thrown humiliatingly flat on his stomach, sharp pain like an arrow shooting up his back to his neck. He closed his eyes against the pain, sensing guys falling away, not wanting to get involved. On his knees again, he finally looked up at his assailant. A new guy, someone he’d never seen before, a sneer on his lips, pop eyes bulging from their sockets.
“What’s going on here?”
The voice belonged to Dugan, an old guard whose voice still held a hint of Irish brogue.
Eric looked up at him. “I slipped, fell down,” he muttered.
Doubt crossed Dugan’s face. His eyes narrowed as he looked from Eric to Pop Eyes and back again.
“Well, watch your step,” he admonished Eric but looked at Pop Eyes. “I want no trouble here.…”
As Eric got to his feet, his eyes met the pop eyes of his attacker. They revealed nothing. His face was a blank, no hate, no dislike, nothing. Like a hired hit man.
Eric fixed the utensils in place on the tray, anger pulsing in his cheeks. He was not really angry at Pop Eyes but at Lieutenant Proctor, whom he knew had engineered the attack. Pop Eyes was merely a puppet. Dugan had stopped the assault, which indicated that the guards were not a part of the plot. Eric was grateful for this. He could handle other prisoners, even an animal like Pop Eyes, but he was not immune to the guards.
As he ate his dinner, isolated as usual, the food tasteless in his mouth, he wondered when the next attempt would happen.
Once again, Sweet Lefty came to the rescue.
He heard a knock on the door of his room just before Lights Out. Leaping to his feet, aware that he had been lying tensely in bed, he placed his ear against the door and heard a muffled voice:
“It’s Sweet Lefty.”
Turning the knob, he opened the door a crack, apprehensive, wondering if he could trust even Sweet Lefty.
“Tomorrow, at lunchtime. A riot in the cafeteria. Keep out of it.…”
Eric listened for details but there was only silence, followed by Sweet Lefty’s departing footsteps.
He realized he had no choice but to trust Sweet Lefty. Apparently, he still felt he owed Eric a debt.
Later, as he was lying in bed, in the dark, excitement sizzling in his veins, his mind caught fire. How do you keep away from a riot? His days and nights in the facility had been a long succession of routines that had made few demands on either his body or his mind. Now, a problem had arisen and his mind was actually working: probing, analyzing. Exhilarated, he pictured the cafeteria, brought up images from old prison movies. Overturned tables, prisoners fighting each other, plates sailing through the air, rushing guards. Then: quarantine, punishment. How do you avoid all that? His thoughts were like pinpricks, keeping him awake, sweet pinpricks as if his brain had come alive after a long slumber.
The next morning during the ten o’clock class in social studies, Eric approached the instructor’s desk.
“Asking permission to go to the infirmary,” he said to the pipe-smoking teacher, who always wore a tweed jacket as if he taught in a fancy college.
“Not feeling well, Poole?” he asked, his voice also deep and resonant like a professor’s.
“Spent half the night with diarrhea and throwing up,” Eric said.
The instructor filled out a permission slip. “Better get it taken care of. You don’t want to walk out of here Friday a sick boy.”
The infirmary was staffed by a male nurse by the name of Dunstan, who took care of routine cases. Doctors were on call for more serious illnesses or injuries. Dunstan liked pretending that he was a doctor, a stethoscope dangling on his chest. Cheerful, humming, he took Eric’s temperature and blood pressure. “All’s normal,” he announced. He listened sympathetically to Eric’s symptoms.
“Take it easy the rest of the day,” he said. “Mylanta should do the trick.”
Eric pretended to stagger as he stood up, reaching out to the wall for support.
Dunstan, concerned, asked, “What’s the matter?”
“Dizzy,” Eric said.
Dunstan studied him closely. “Okay, why not lie down for a while? You probably don’t want lunch, anyway. Stay here awhile.… I’ll keep an eye on you.…”
Wonderful, Eric thought, as he made his way shakily to a cot near the window.
“You’re probably dehydrated,” Dunstan said. “I’ll keep you supplied with liquids.…”
Eric let himself carefully down on the cot, exaggerating his actions, but careful not to overact, keeping a delicate balance.
“I’ll be right here if you need anything,” Dunstan said, in his best bedside manner, handing Eric a glass of water.
Eric gave himself up to the luxury of relaxation. He knew that if he survived today without incident, he would have defeated the old cop’s plans to keep him incarcerated indefinitely. Tomorrow, his routines of departure, exit interviews, a hundred forms to fill out, all of the activity under the supervision of guards and facility officials. The old cop would be foolish to try anything on the final day.
Eyes half closed, Eric watched the big clock on the wall, tracing the progress of the second hand. Two other prisoners came in for treatment. Eric shut them out, using his old method of removing himself from the scene, isolating himself from his surroundings. Except for the clock.
The clock reached noon, and Eric raised himself on one elbow, breathless with anticipation. A minute passed, two.
As Dunstan approached with another glass of water, the sound of the siren filled the air, a frantic howl that caused Dunstan to stumble, spilling water on the floor. The floor seemed to tremble, bottles rattled on the shelves.
Failed again, Lieutenant, Eric said silently, settling back in bed, the siren like a crazy symphony. He turned away from Dunstan, hiding the smile of triumph on his face.
That evening, after dinner, the Distributor handed him a note.
Still on guard, Eric shot him a questioning look: Who’s it from?
“I don’t know,” the Distributor said. “It was in the usual place. I always collect at the receiving end.” Fast-talking as usual. His hard face softened. “No charge. A going-away present …”
Eric nodded his appreciation, flustered a bit, unaccustomed to accepting favors that weren’t earned.
In his room he unfolded the note. Delicate handwriting, blue ink, the paper faintly scented. Without salutation, the note read:
I saw you looking at me. I was looking at you, too. My name is Maria Valdez. I live in Barton, I’m out of here soon. Call me. I’ll be waiting.
Her telephone number followed.
He drew the envelope across his nostrils, inhaling the faint scent he could not identify but that smelled beautifully feminine. He pressed his lips against the paper, seeking whatever tenderness it contained. Her long black hair and slender throat came to his mind.
Although he knew the risk of retaining something that could become evidence, he could not make himself throw the note away. He folded it as small as possible and slipped it into his wallet.
At the window, he stretched out his arms, raised his head high, arching his back. In twenty-four hours he would be free.
Free. To follow his destiny. To pursue them all.
Here is why I am fixated on that face and those eyes of Eric Poole on television.
Two days after my twelfth birthday, I was wandering lonely as a cloud like in a poem we read in English, out at the railroad tracks, thinking about my birthday and how my mother arrived home late because she got involved with some guy at a bar and drank too much and forgot to buy the birthday cake.
Then I told myself: Snap out of it. A birthday cake is not a big thing anymore. You are no longer a child but almost a teenager. A cake was too sweet, anyway, and I was outgrowing sweet stuff, having a taste lately for cheese and redskin peanuts and potato chips instead of chocolate, which I used to crave all the time. So, at twelve, I should not have b
een sad about not having a cake, and as far as a birthday present goes, my mother would suddenly remember and be full of regret and shame and would buy me something spectacular on payday.
We were living that summer in a small town in New York State and I hadn’t made friends with anyone because my mother said her job at a resort restaurant was temporary and we’d be moving again soon. As I walked on the rails, balancing myself precariously, I looked up and saw a guy and girl walking beside the tracks, ahead of me. They were holding hands. They stopped once and he kissed her, gathering her into his arms. Then they disappeared into the woods.
I followed the tracks all the way into town and passed time wandering a strip mall of discount stores and places to buy fishing gear. On the way back, I paused at an abandoned railroad shack and suddenly he was there, the guy who’d been with the girl, and he was looking at me, one hand in his pocket and the other smoothing out his blond hair.
He was a neat dresser, not sloppy like the usual kids with their baggy clothes. I kept walking on the rail, getting closer to him, and he smiled as if admiring my skill at balancing. Which was silly, of course, but I loved his smile, which made his eyes seem like they were dancing. His eyes were blue like the surface of a pond with the sun shining on it.
“Hi,” he said, in a careless voice like he was throwing the word away.
I didn’t reply but smiled back at him, my smile matching his, as if we were suddenly connected.
“What’s your name, miss?”
Miss. Not kid.
“Lori.”
“Nice name.” A funny expression on his face now, studying me, as if trying to memorize my features.
“How old are you, Lori?”
“Twelve. I was eleven years old only two days ago.”
“Happy birthday.”
Still smiling but his eyes inspecting me now, from top to bottom and top again.
“Did you get a lot of presents?” As if he was not really interested but only being polite.
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