tell
about it.”
Oyster paused and just when Oliver thought he
was through he started up again.
“They gave me life. She killed my monkey and
shared my bed with a woman, and they gave me life. Now you tell me,
Mr. Oliver Priddy, you tell me that was first degree murder and
I'll never say another word about my case.”
Oliver didn't know if he could open his mouth
without bursting into tears. It was one of the most pitiful stories
he had ever heard. “There's no way that was premeditated, Oyster.
No way. You must have had one sorry-ass lawyer, that's all I can
say.”
Oyster didn't answer and this time the
silence washed over them like warm rain. Oliver had heard other
prisoners' stories before, but this one had to be the sorriest one
he had ever heard. As he sat there thinking about Oyster and the
way he had told his story, it occurred to him just how theatrical
prison life really was. They told stories to one another in order
to have something to feel and what they did to others they did in
order to make them feel. One day the sun was rising over yellow
irises dripping with the blood of someone who needed to know what
it felt like to be crossed, and the next day its golden rays were
announcing the arrival of some young buck who didn't know which way
was up and had to let somebody know it.
Early broke the silence. “Oyster, ain't it
your turn to treat?”
“As I recall you just lost a bet,” Oyster
said. “Besides, I bought all last week. You must be getting senile,
Early.”
“Okay. Who wants ice cream?”
“Get me a Nutty Buddy,” said Oyster.
“I'll have one too,” said Peabo. Bell wanted
an ice cream sandwich.
“What about you, Oliver?”
“'Preciate it, but I've got to go take care
of something. I enjoyed hanging out with you cats. Nothing beats
good company.”
“You're welcome back any time,” said
Peabo.
“A friend of Early's is a friend of ours,”
said Oyster.
Bell waved goodbye. As he walked beside Early
down the third base line, Oliver listened to the crickets chirping
in the ivy that crawled over the walls of the Home Block and the
pastoral sound reminded him of spring evenings long ago on his
grandfather's farm. He recalled the game he and his brother Skip
had made out of seeing who could silence the last cricket in the
patch of ivy that grew along the main pasture's fence line. The
boys' methods couldn't have been more different. Oliver would run
along a path that was parallel to the fence while clapping his
hands and shouting, “Shut it up! Shut it up!” Skip's tactic had
been to step inside the pasture and run beside the fence while
sharply rapping a tobacco stick against the wooden fence posts. How
Oliver missed those days now.
He looked over his shoulder as the pitcher
released the ball and was braced to protect Early and himself from
any foul balls coming their way. A tall, stocky prisoner in a green
cap pushed Early in an effort to get past him and Oliver grabbed
his arm. “Hey, what's the big hurry?” Oliver asked.
“Get the fuck off my arm,” the prisoner
snapped, moving on through the crowd.
Oliver left Early standing in the ice cream
line and headed for the auditorium. He stood inside the doorway and
checked his watch. It was almost time. Through the glass in the
door he watched the door to the little St. Regis and at eight
o'clock sharp Fat Daddy came strutting down the ramp dressed in his
apple green hospital uniform and shiny brogans, just as he had for
the last three nights Oliver had been watching him. When he passed
by the auditorium doors, Oliver followed him from a distance.
Prisoners were returning from the evening medication line and Tom's
Way was crowded with Thorazine shufflers and other drug-induced
prisoners walking in Oliver's direction. At the intersection of
Turk's Street and Tom's Way he stopped and watched Fat Daddy cross
Main Street and head up the hospital driveway. When he saw Fat
Daddy enter the lobby, Oliver fell in with the crowd that
about it.”
Oyster paused and just when Oliver thought he
was through he started up again.
“They gave me life. She killed my monkey and
shared my bed with a woman, and they gave me life. Now you tell me,
Mr. Oliver Priddy, you tell me that was first degree murder and
I'll never say another word about my case.”
Oliver didn't know if he could open his mouth
without bursting into tears. It was one of the most pitiful stories
he had ever heard. “There's no way that was premeditated, Oyster.
No way. You must have had one sorry-ass lawyer, that's all I can
say.”
Oyster didn't answer and this time the
silence washed over them like warm rain. Oliver had heard other
prisoners' stories before, but this one had to be the sorriest one
he had ever heard. As he sat there thinking about Oyster and the
way he had told his story, it occurred to him just how theatrical
prison life really was. They told stories to one another in order
to have something to feel and what they did to others they did in
order to make them feel. One day the sun was rising over yellow
irises dripping with the blood of someone who needed to know what
it felt like to be crossed, and the next day its golden rays were
announcing the arrival of some young buck who didn't know which way
was up and had to let somebody know it.
Early broke the silence. “Oyster, ain't it
your turn to treat?”
“As I recall you just lost a bet,” Oyster
said. “Besides, I bought all last week. You must be getting senile,
Early.”
“Okay. Who wants ice cream?”
“Get me a Nutty Buddy,” said Oyster.
“I'll have one too,” said Peabo. Bell wanted
an ice cream sandwich.
“What about you, Oliver?”
“'Preciate it, but I've got to go take care
of something. I enjoyed hanging out with you cats. Nothing beats
good company.”
“You're welcome back any time,” said
Peabo.
“A friend of Early's is a friend of ours,”
said Oyster.
Bell waved goodbye. As he walked beside Early
down the third base line, Oliver listened to the crickets chirping
in the ivy that crawled over the walls of the Home Block and the
pastoral sound reminded him of spring evenings long ago on his
grandfather's farm. He recalled the game he and his brother Skip
had made out of seeing who could silence the last cricket in the
patch of ivy that grew along the main pasture's fence line. The
boys' methods couldn't have been more different. Oliver would run
along a path that was parallel to the fence while clapping his
hands and shouting, “Shut it up! Shut it up!” Skip's tactic had
been to step inside the pasture and run beside the fence while
sharply rapping a tobacco stick against the wooden fence posts. How
Oliver missed those days now.
He looked over his shoulder as the pitcher
released the ball and was braced to protect Early and himself from
any foul balls coming their way. A tall, stocky prisoner in a green
cap pushed Early in an effort to get past him and Oliver grabbed
his arm. “Hey, what's the big hurry?” Oliver asked.
“Get the fuck off my arm,” the prisoner
snapped, moving on through the crowd.
Oliver left Early standing in the ice cream
line and headed for the auditorium. He stood inside the doorway and
checked his watch. It was almost time. Through the glass in the
door he watched the door to the little St. Regis and at eight
o'clock sharp Fat Daddy came strutting down the ramp dressed in his
apple green hospital uniform and shiny brogans, just as he had for
the last three nights Oliver had been watching him. When he passed
by the auditorium doors, Oliver followed him from a distance.
Prisoners were returning from the evening medication line and Tom's
Way was crowded with Thorazine shufflers and other drug-induced
prisoners walking in Oliver's direction. At the intersection of
Turk's Street and Tom's Way he stopped and watched Fat Daddy cross
Main Street and head up the hospital driveway. When he saw Fat
Daddy enter the lobby, Oliver fell in with the crowd that
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