right.”
“Norah?”
“We’ll have a nice long talk. She’ll come around.”
They lay like spoons, intimate in every way. Nell heard water running in the pipes, thought: she’s up. She checked the time on the bedside clock. The eyes of Caravaggio’s Fortune Teller came to her mind, unbidden and unreadable.
C H A P T E R 10
Pirate dreamed about God. God thundereth marvellously with his voice. Pirate heard God’s thundering in his dreams and was not afraid. Why? Because great things doeth he, which we can-not comprehend. For he saith to the snow, Be thou on earth; likewise to the small rain, and to the great rain of his strength. The great rain of his strength: Pirate slept to the sound of the great rain, God driving the deluge on and on. Picturing God was easy—a whirlwind with an unseen face inside. It poured and poured but Pirate was warm and dry on his bunk.
“Hey, you alive in there? Wake fuckin’ up.”
Pirate rolled over, sat up, saw the big guard with the modified dreads, whose normal voice was soft, but not today.
“And put that goddamn patch on. No one wants to look at you like that.”
Pirate felt around on the bunk, found the patch. Sometimes it slipped off in the night; that had never been a problem with anyone before.
“Come on, shake a leg,” said the guard, still sounding angry, maybe even angrier.
Pirate got his patch in place. “I didn’t put in for it,” he said.
“What you talkin’ about?”
“Protective custody. I don’t want it.”
“Protective custody? Shit. Get a move on.”
76
PETER ABRAHAMS
“Where?” said Pirate. “Where am I going?”
“Court. Forgot your own hearing?”
“I didn’t, uh—”
“Move, for Christ’s sake. It’s a long drive.”
“Where, um—”
“Belle Ville—where d’you think?”
“Leaving the . . . the building?”
“Goin’ senile or something?”
Leaving the building: this was bad. Pirate didn’t even like leaving his cell without the tiny weapon. “Need a minute,” he said.
“Huh?”
“Just to, uh, clean up a little.”
“Clean up? Ain’t no job interview.”
Pirate’s hands got unsteady. This was bad. All he wanted was to be at peace. Then he had a thought. “Respect for the court,” he said.
The guard gazed at him. This wasn’t one of the hard-ass guards, but his gaze today was hard-ass as the most hard-ass. “One minute,”
he said, and moved down the block.
Pirate took less than half of that to get the tiny weapon from the secret hideout and stick it in place; cutting himself just the lit-tlest bit on account of that unsteadiness in his hands. He was at the soup-bowl-size sink, splashing cold water on his face—there was no hot—when the guard returned. The door slid open.
“Raise ’em up,” said the guard.
Pirate raised his arms, spread his legs, exposed his anus, went through the whole routine.
“Move.”
Pirate picked up his Bible.
“Who said anything about that?”
“Just my Bible.”
The guard made a move to grab it, a move that slowed down, became a more respectful taking. He held Pirate’s Bible by the spine, gave a shake. Nothing fell out; the gold tassel looped free, that was all. The guard handed back the Bible.
They walked down the block, past the rat cages.
“Adios,” said one of the rats.
D E LU S I O N
77
Adiós meant good-bye; also had God in it. Pirate was still thinking about that—the guard on his blind side, but there was nothing Pirate could do—when they left the block, crossed a patch of dirt near the kitchens and entered a room Pirate had never seen.
More guards. Some Pirate knew and some he didn’t, but all were at their meanest. Why?
“What’s he’s got there?”
“Bible.”
“Who said he gets to take that?”
The guards looked at one another. A phone call went out somewhere; Pirate thought he heard the words “warden’s office.” His Bible must have been important if the warden was getting involved. Word came back.
“Bible okay,
“Norah?”
“We’ll have a nice long talk. She’ll come around.”
They lay like spoons, intimate in every way. Nell heard water running in the pipes, thought: she’s up. She checked the time on the bedside clock. The eyes of Caravaggio’s Fortune Teller came to her mind, unbidden and unreadable.
C H A P T E R 10
Pirate dreamed about God. God thundereth marvellously with his voice. Pirate heard God’s thundering in his dreams and was not afraid. Why? Because great things doeth he, which we can-not comprehend. For he saith to the snow, Be thou on earth; likewise to the small rain, and to the great rain of his strength. The great rain of his strength: Pirate slept to the sound of the great rain, God driving the deluge on and on. Picturing God was easy—a whirlwind with an unseen face inside. It poured and poured but Pirate was warm and dry on his bunk.
“Hey, you alive in there? Wake fuckin’ up.”
Pirate rolled over, sat up, saw the big guard with the modified dreads, whose normal voice was soft, but not today.
“And put that goddamn patch on. No one wants to look at you like that.”
Pirate felt around on the bunk, found the patch. Sometimes it slipped off in the night; that had never been a problem with anyone before.
“Come on, shake a leg,” said the guard, still sounding angry, maybe even angrier.
Pirate got his patch in place. “I didn’t put in for it,” he said.
“What you talkin’ about?”
“Protective custody. I don’t want it.”
“Protective custody? Shit. Get a move on.”
76
PETER ABRAHAMS
“Where?” said Pirate. “Where am I going?”
“Court. Forgot your own hearing?”
“I didn’t, uh—”
“Move, for Christ’s sake. It’s a long drive.”
“Where, um—”
“Belle Ville—where d’you think?”
“Leaving the . . . the building?”
“Goin’ senile or something?”
Leaving the building: this was bad. Pirate didn’t even like leaving his cell without the tiny weapon. “Need a minute,” he said.
“Huh?”
“Just to, uh, clean up a little.”
“Clean up? Ain’t no job interview.”
Pirate’s hands got unsteady. This was bad. All he wanted was to be at peace. Then he had a thought. “Respect for the court,” he said.
The guard gazed at him. This wasn’t one of the hard-ass guards, but his gaze today was hard-ass as the most hard-ass. “One minute,”
he said, and moved down the block.
Pirate took less than half of that to get the tiny weapon from the secret hideout and stick it in place; cutting himself just the lit-tlest bit on account of that unsteadiness in his hands. He was at the soup-bowl-size sink, splashing cold water on his face—there was no hot—when the guard returned. The door slid open.
“Raise ’em up,” said the guard.
Pirate raised his arms, spread his legs, exposed his anus, went through the whole routine.
“Move.”
Pirate picked up his Bible.
“Who said anything about that?”
“Just my Bible.”
The guard made a move to grab it, a move that slowed down, became a more respectful taking. He held Pirate’s Bible by the spine, gave a shake. Nothing fell out; the gold tassel looped free, that was all. The guard handed back the Bible.
They walked down the block, past the rat cages.
“Adios,” said one of the rats.
D E LU S I O N
77
Adiós meant good-bye; also had God in it. Pirate was still thinking about that—the guard on his blind side, but there was nothing Pirate could do—when they left the block, crossed a patch of dirt near the kitchens and entered a room Pirate had never seen.
More guards. Some Pirate knew and some he didn’t, but all were at their meanest. Why?
“What’s he’s got there?”
“Bible.”
“Who said he gets to take that?”
The guards looked at one another. A phone call went out somewhere; Pirate thought he heard the words “warden’s office.” His Bible must have been important if the warden was getting involved. Word came back.
“Bible okay,
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