Sleepers. Part 24

Ferguson lifted his head and grabbed both of my cheeks in his hand, a wild, maniacal smile on his face.

"You supposed supposed to keep your eyes to keep your eyes closed," closed," he said, moving backward, closer to John, dragging me with him. "Didn't you know that?" he said, moving backward, closer to John, dragging me with him. "Didn't you know that?"

We were inches from my cot, my hand close enough to reach the empty beer bottle and the baton. John was by the side of the bed, the knife still against his leg. Ferguson let go of my face, undid his pants, and took two more steps back.

"All right," he said. "Let's stop f.u.c.kin' around, sweet thing. It's time for fun."

I eased down to my knees, my head up, looking into Ferguson's eyes, my hand reaching for the baton to my right.

"That's it, sweet thing," Ferguson said. "And remember, I like it slow. Nice and slow."

Ferguson felt the edge of the knife before he heard John's voice.

"That's how I'm gonna let you die, dip s.h.i.+t," John said. "Nice and slow."

"You little punk," Ferguson said more with surprise than fright. "What the h.e.l.l you tryin' to do?"

"It's time for me to have a little fun," John said.

"I can have you killed for this," Ferguson said.

"Then I've got nothin' to lose."

I grabbed the baton, jumped to my feet, and held it with both hands. I looked past Ferguson at John, saw something in his eyes that had never been there before.

"You can't cut him, Johnny," I said.

"Watch me, Shakes," John said. "Sit down on your cot and watch me."

"Go back to your cell," I said. "Leave him to me."

"He's not gonna get away with it," John said. "He's not gonna walk away from what he did to me. What he's been doin' to all of us."

"He has has to get away with it," I said. to get away with it," I said.

"Who says?" John asked. "Who the f.u.c.k says?"

"We're gonna get out of here in a few months," I whispered slowly. "If you stick him, we aren't going anywhere."

"Listen to your friend, Irish," Ferguson said. "He's talkin' sense here."

I braced my legs and shoved the fat end of the baton into the center of Ferguson's stomach. I watched him flinch from the blow, his lungs hurting for air.

"Stay outta this, sc.u.mbag," I said. "Or I'll kill you myself."

John moved the knife away from Ferguson's neck, stepping back, holding the sharp edge of the blade in the palm of his hand. His face was a portrait of hard hate, emptied of its sweet-eyed charm, a resting place for all the torment and abuse he had endured.

In so many ways he was no longer the John I had known, the John I had grown up with. Wilkinson had done more than beat and abuse him. It had taken him beyond mere humiliation. It had broken him down and pulled him apart. It had ripped into the most gentle heart I had known and emptied it of all feeling. The John Reilly who would turn our clubhouse into a safe haven for lost kittens was gone. The John Reilly who stole fruits and vegetables off supermarket trucks and left them at the apartment door of Mrs. Angela DeSalvo, an elderly invalid with no money and no family, was dead and buried. Replaced by the John Reilly who stood before me now, ready to kill a man and not give it another thought.

"Let it go, John," I said. "He's a piece of s.h.i.+t and he's not worth it."

"Glad to see you got smarts," Ferguson said, getting his wind back, looking up at me. "I'll go easy on you in my report."

"There won't be a report," I said.

"f.u.c.k you mean, there won't be a report?" Ferguson said, the drunken slur of his words replaced by a steadfast anger. "You two a.s.saulted a guard. There's gotta gotta be a report." be a report."

"Just go, Ferguson," I said, handing him back his baton. "Fix your pants and get the f.u.c.k outta here."

"I ain't leavin' before Irish over there hands me the knife," Ferguson said.

"There isn't any knife," I said.

I walked over to where John was standing, the steel look still on his face, his eyes honed in on Ferguson. I rested my hand against the one holding the knife, knuckles tight around the edge of the blade.

"It's okay, Johnny," I said. "You can let go now. It's okay."

"He's not gonna touch me again," John said, the voice no longer that of the boy who cried at the end of sad movies. "You hear me, Shakes? He's not gonna touch me again."

"I hear you," I said, taking the knife from my Mend's hand.

I nudged past Ferguson and walked over to my cot. I lifted the thin mattress and put the knife on top of the springs.

"Like I said, Ferguson," I said, turning to face him. "There's no knife."

"I ain't gonna forget you did this," Ferguson said, pointing a shaking finger at both me and John. "You two hear me? I ain't gonna forget this."

"It's a devil's deal, then," I said.

"What the f.u.c.k's that mean?" Ferguson said.

John explained it to him. "First one to forget dies," he said.

11.

THE E ENGLISH TEACHER, Fred Carlson, stood before the cla.s.s, his tie open at the collar, his gla.s.ses resting on top of his head, a thick piece of gum lodged in the corner of his mouth. He had his back to the blackboard, hands resting on its edge. He was young, not much past thirty, in his first semester at Wilkinson, paid to pa.s.s on the finer points of reading and writing to a cla.s.s of disinterested inmates.

"I was expecting to read thirty book reports over the weekend," Carlson said in a voice that echoed his country home. "There were only six for me to read. Which means I'm missing how many?"

"This here's English cla.s.s," a kid in the back shouted. "Math's down the hall."

A few inmates laughed out loud, the rest just smirked or continued to stare out the cla.s.sroom windows at the snow-filled fields below.

"I'm doing my best," Carlson said, his manner controlled, his frustration apparent. "I want to help you. You may not believe that or you may not care, but it's the truth. But I can't force you to read and I can't make you write the reports. That's something only you can do."

"Must be easy to read where you live," an inmate in a thin-cropped Afro said. "Easy to write. It ain't that easy to do in here."

"I'm sure it's not," Carlson said. "But you have to find a way. If you expect to get anywhere once you get out of here, you have to find a way."

"I gotta try stayin' alive," the inmate said. "You got a book that's gonna teach me that?"

"No," Carlson said, stepping away from the blackboard. "I don't. No one does."

"There you go," the inmate said.

"Then I'm just wasting your time," Carlson said. "Is that what you're saying to me?"

"You wastin' everybody's everybody's time," the inmate said, hand slapping a muscular teenager to his right. "Give it up and keep it home. Ain't no place for what you got here." time," the inmate said, hand slapping a muscular teenager to his right. "Give it up and keep it home. Ain't no place for what you got here."

Fred Carlson pulled a metal chair from behind the center of the desk and sat down, both hands on his legs, his body rigid, his eyes on the inmate.

He stayed that way until the whistles sounded the end of the period.

"See you Friday, teach," the inmate said on his way out the cla.s.sroom door. "If "If you still here." you still here."

"I'll see you then," Carlson said. "If "If you're still alive." you're still alive."

I was walking down a row behind four other inmates, a black-edged notebook in my hand, a dull pencil hanging in my ear flap.

"You got a second?" Carlson asked as I pa.s.sed by his desk.

"I do something wrong?" I asked.

"No," he said, shaking his head and smiling. "I just want to talk to you."

I stood my ground, waiting for the cla.s.sroom to empty, hands in my pants pockets.

"You did a great job on your book report," Carlson said.

I mumbled a thank-you.

"How come you were able to find the time to do the work?" Carlson asked with a slight hint of sarcasm. "Aren't you worried about staying alive?"

"I worry about it all the time," I said. "That's why I read and write. It keeps my mind off it a while."

"You really seemed to like the book," Carlson said. My report had been on The Count of Monte Cristo. The Count of Monte Cristo.

"It's my favorite," I explained. "I like it even more since I been in here."

"Why's that?"

"I told you why in the report," I said.

"Tell me again."

"He wouldn't let anybody beat him," I said. "The Count took what he had to take, beatings, insults, whatever, and learned from it. Then, when the time came for him to do something, he made his move."

"You admire that?" Carlson asked, reaching across the desk for a brown leather bag stuffed with books and loose papers.

"I respect respect that," I said. that," I said.

"Do you have a copy of the book at home?"

"No," I said. "I've only got the Cla.s.sics Ill.u.s.trated Cla.s.sics Ill.u.s.trated comic. That's how I first found out about it." comic. That's how I first found out about it."

"It's not the same thing," Carlson said.

"There's a librarian in my neighborhood, she knows how much I like the story," I said. "She makes sure the book's always around for me. It's not that big a deal. Not many people look to take it out."

Carlson had his head down, rummaging with both hands through his bag.

"I gotta get goin', Mr. Carlson," I said. "Can't miss morning roll."

"One more minute," Carlson said. "I've got something for you."

"What is it?" I asked.

"This," Carlson said, a hardbound copy of The Count of Monte Cristo The Count of Monte Cristo in his hand. "I thought you might like to have it." in his hand. "I thought you might like to have it."

"To keep?"

"Yes," Carlson said.

"Are you serious?" I asked.

"Very serious," Carlson said. "You love a book that much, you should have a copy of your own."

"I can't pay you," I told him.

"It's a gift," Carlson said. "You've received gifts before, haven't you?"

"It's been a while," I said, opening the book, flipping through its familiar pages.

"This one's from me to you," Carlson said. "My way of saying thanks."

"Thanks for what?" I asked.

"For not making me think I'm just spinning my wheels in here," Carlson said. "That somebody somebody, even if it is only one student, listens."

"You're a good teacher, Mr. Carlson," I said. "You're just stuck with a bad bunch."

"I can't imagine being locked in here," Carlson said. "For one night, let alone months."